The Fountain

As long as I can remember 

A fountain has flowed in my life 

It wasn’t water which ebbed and spouted

But rather a cacophony of words

Words

Relating to the human condition 

Sometimes touching 

Sometimes covering

Every part of human experience 

Words

Originating from an emotion

Or a thought, or memory

Walking through every event 

Words 

Gleaning 

Reaping 

Sharing 

Flowing 

Then a day 

Like any other day 

The words weren’t there 

The fountain was dry 

No shower of love 

No basket of grief 

No burden of sorrow 

Nothing flowed freely 

My constant companion 

My faithful friend 

My ever present refuge 

Suddenly absent in my life 

Only faltering starts 

Forced contrivances 

A few promising steps 

Then an uncomfortable nothingness 

Let me tell you about writing 

When writing refuses to be written 

Composing, from just the memory of words 

Priming the pump, continually 

It is as if there is a dam in your soul

History tells you the words are there 

Yet, reality weaves a sadder tale 

While hope clings to its fragile perch 

There is little scarier to a writer 

Than a blank page 

And words refusing to fall 

Churning behind the wall 

Still 

Daily we go to the fountain 

Searching for a solitary word 

One which will break the block 

And conquer this smaller death 

Maybe today

Maybe tomorrow 

Maybe 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

May 28, 2021