Lost

Some days I come to the page with all creativity spent.
Not one word comes to mind or draws my soul, they
Just fly away as dry and meaningless as dust on the wind.
Yet I know this will only last for a season, so I sit
Waiting for some word to carry out, to lead me to the next.
Some wonderful word to form and take presence as if that
Is the most important thing, to sit and wait in the dry season
For rain.