BLOCKED

Late May near Charlottesville, and the Blue Ridge
mountains loaf along to my left, wrapped
in their usual haze. The sky is a blank sheet,
untroubled as a baby’s sleep. A cardinal twangs
his notes of cheer; he has no truck with irony
and post-modernism, and a bluebird—bluer than blue—
flashes about the grass in his cloak of sky.
The twin bags of doubt and self-loathing I have
been dragging around all week start to grow lighter.
A breeze gently riffles the pages of the underbrush,
and all the words I’ve been looking for assemble
themselves on the lawn. I just have to coax them
onto paper, the shy little darlings. But a gust
of wind blows up, and they’re gone.
Barbara Crooker
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