I haven't written in so long…
My pen groans, as I force it to carve words into the cement
Of my idle poet's mind.
Why is this such a difficult concept now?
Words used to flow into poems like the breath from my lips
Each breath a molecule in the too-saturated roots
In a tree that never had to even think about growing.
It just grew.
But now, it's being transferred, potted, so the roots can only expand
So far, until they can go no further and now must decide whether to
Coil in the anticipation of miserable depression, or to make the leap
shatter the ceramic pottery of confinement and burst outward in a jubilant cry of defiance,

I am here.

Up here, where the sunset still lingers in the
Starfish-shaped crystals forming on this plane's little window,
Where I can see nothing outside but the swirling mass of white,
An abyss that refuses to be penetrated by the plane's blunt wings,
The piercing blindness of blue above laying in tremulous wait.
Is it even there? I know the stratosphere holds no secrets, but its blindfold on the
Lower layer seeks only to conceal. Then again, if these stunted wings can soar
30,000 feet above the ground at 600 miles an hour,
I should be able to remember how to do this.
I should be able to poke a tentative finger in the direction of what used to be
As easy as life.