It’s been a while since the spark of my mind
and the images it carves in the grain of my imagination
have wanted to come freely out through my fingertips
and drip into inky life on the page.
Usually, I have to drag them. Wrap my hands around their horns and heave
to get them moving. But of course, that only makes them more stubborn.
I show them pictures of the tumbleweed rolling across my notebook,
pick up handfuls of dry soil
so they can see how barren it’s become.
Guilt-tripping them all the way until they grumble into a slow shuffle
one by one, and cause ink blots everywhere as they do so.
But today they danced out to a waltz,
a festival of colours and gowns and painted masks
because I chose to let them take control of my fingers
and make the shapes they wanted to,
and not force them to bend into mine.