This molten metal
that keeps creeping through her brain
is stalling her words
There’s a dream I have sometimes where I’m walking with my parents and my son through a crowded log cabin village. Each newly-made pine plank covered porch is joined up with a boardwalk that hovers above mud and grass and wildflowers. It’s dark outside. Fairy lights are hung over everything and provide the only light shining in the moonlight. Inside the cabins are candles burning, sending beeswax and lavender and vanilla smells through the air. It’s cool out. It’s mid-Autumn. One of the cabins’ doors is open and tropical birds fly out like a Rousseau painting in motion. The trees are dark thick firs dripping with Spanish moss. My folks and I are watching my son jump from porch to porch like a new butterfly. It’s a nice dream. Remembering nice vivid dreams like this is helping me rid myself of my writer’s block. I’m trying to write through it, but really, what’s coming through is horribly mediocre and I know it. I just have to slog until the light shines in again. It will. I can’t stop writing though. When I don’t it’s like an asthma attack. I’m never more myself than when I’m clacking at a keyboard or attempting to describe something that’s beautiful to me.