How long do I let these words rest?
How long till they rise from the bottom of my soul to the tips of fingers exploding on the page?
How long till the vowels and consonants form audible, determinable, intelligible sounds that move beyond groans and aching sighs?
How long do I let these word sit in silence unwilling to be coaxed?
How long till the dam breaks and phrases run their course through my veins?
A season of pause has caught me in its grasp, and I cannot fight it.
It bids me rest, and ponder, and release, but this is not what I asked for.
This season beckons words into hibernation, and I, helpless to halt their march to sleep, have sat in woeful silence.
How long do I let these words live the full capacity of the season’s captivity?
How long till the crooked places bend back into formidable plumb line uninterrupted?
How long do I let these words stick to the roof of my mouth?
How long till the tide wanting of sparks a storm of creativity flood away unfulfilled hope?
A season of stillness has lured me to its hiding place, and I desperately need it.
It bids me listen; hear your heartbeat, and note the cry of your own soul.
This season beckons restoration, to cease from all the doing.
I have missed my words, their song and dance, and the voice of their noticing.
How long to I let these words?
Until they wish to rise again and I
find strength to embrace them yet again.