Drawing a Blank

 There was a time when I had so much to say, pages to write, stories to unfold.

I’m struggling now to come up with two sentences.

I had posts queued at Blogger. I wrote letters to the Editor, my senator, congressperson. I effected change.

These days—there is this ennui, where I wonder: Will things always be this way. I feel robbed of words. A drifter picking through old bones, looking for a scrap.

Where is the girl with too much on her mind, afraid to settle, unstoppable? Where have all the wild horses gone?

Must get going, must move, must not stay here for long.