I Read This Every Time I Don’t Know What to Write

Some mornings aren’t about writing. They’re about remembering why you do

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There are days when the words won’t come. When my cursor ticks away like a dare. When my head is so full that nothing can come out.

My body says, write. But my brain is blank. I’ve stopped trying to force it now.

I read this instead.

He called me before dawn
“Get up,” He said
“You’ll miss it.”

That yellow streak in the sky, the one I love
I wanted to see it
It’s melting against the blue, looked like a used paint palette
two colors that shouldn’t go together
but somehow do.

“Quick, hurry, before it’s gone.”

I couldn’t make out the birds
but I knew they were awake
flying shadows swooping and gliding
from tree to tree.

The sky was breathtaking
as the white light began to bloom,
cotton clouds ballooned above the waking earth.