Earlier today I sat down to write a story.
Or a poem.
Sun was high across cornflower blue sky.
And then I waited for a long time.
But no words came.
Virginally white page offered no relief.
Without familiar flood of words to break her loftiness, it just glared at me stiff and unforgiving.
Ogling the debris of pain and loss and grief, swelling
mea culpa, mea culpa, mea máxima culpa.