Soon a writer hits a block

There comes a time of drought,
Words cease to gather in the clouds
They fail to fall like they usually do
The land becomes dry-
Another Somalia begins.
Cry all you want
But nothing new forms
Then it dawns on you
That a time of menopause will come
When you can’t bleed or birth words again.
There’ll be no musing
In butterflies, flowers, birds and bees,
Nor in death, sadness and trees.
Everything refuses you.
You refuse yourself too.
But you sigh, then start writing
All over again.

Younglan Louis