I’m looking for words.

I know where to find them.

They are are huddled up inside my head.  Usually, when I leave them there, they group and they gather.  It’s like they meet for coffee and all discover they haven’t gotten out much and that they might as well just pour out like the steaming cup of coffee they’ve gathered for.  And, they do just that.  They pour out.  Pour out in my journal, on paper, and spill on this blog.  The pot is empty, the gathering gone, and I feel full.  But, these past two months I haven’t been able to pour.  If I’m lucky there is a drip, or a drop.  Mostly, there is only a slight aroma which evaporates into a tease of the rich taste I remember (It’s how I have to take my coffee these days anyways, only through the olfactory).

I’m not looking for words.

I know where to find them.

 

 

Only, it’s seems they are not huddled; they must be hibernating.  Do they know winter is coming?  That there has been a chill in the air and a fresh morning frost that has taken a jagged bite?  Are they slumbering or frozen or have they disappeared?  Maybe, I’m too busy tending the bite and trying to heal?  Or, maybe my words are mannered and feel that now is not the time to gather and group.  Maybe, they know that the coffee might scald and the cup couldn’t contain it?

I wish I could wake them.  Would they talk about couches or courage?  I wish they would come together.  I wish they would pour out.

They are not pouring.

So, I am typing.

Typing letters and making words.  Wondering if they will make sentences or sense.  “Maybe,” I tell myself,  “If I click the keyboard, something will click?”  I haven’t forgotten how to ride the bike; I just wonder if I want to ride the bike, today?  I love the bike.  It takes me places.  It’s a formed piece of freedom.  Wind in my hair, freckles dancing on my face.  I feel free.  Free like I did when I was ten and the only thing I was tied to was being home by dark.

So, I am typing.

With a punch of “T” and an “R” and a “Y.”  I try.

A short ride, with a slow peddling, just around the cul-de-sac.  No wind blowing.  No freckles dancing.  But, my feet, they know what to do.  Peddle.  Type.  Try.  And, in the slow start that is really taking me no where, only around the short street that ends with a circle, I feel like I’ve gone somewhere.  I’ve peddled.  I’ve typed.  I’ve tried.  Actually, I remember what it feels like to peddle right off the street I live on.  It feels like freedom.

Tomorrow, or maybe the day after, I’ll peddle, type and try.   Perhaps, the words will awaken from the whisper of the wind?  The coffee is on, and the aroma is freedom.  I think, just like they’ve always done, they will group and gather and pour themselves out into any and every empty cup, not even caring if it spills over.