One Single Solitary Thing

For weeks I couldn’t write a thing.

Not one single solitary thing.

Start a story,

lose my way,

Begin a poem,

lines fester incomplete.

I had never felt

such a squander,

so incapable,

without vision.

After a while,

a month,

or maybe two,

little by little

words returned,

hope renewed,

faith restored,

in myself

and fellow man.