I don’t always have     a poem in me. 

    Sometimes, the writer’s well

I draw from     is shallow

   and my bucket    comes up 

empty. I dip     and I dip,    but

    the word water     remains

out of my reach.     So,

    I pull up the bucket

and sit it     in the grass

    and wait     for the clouds

to fill it up     with rainwater. 

    Only once it begins 

to overflow     can I shape

    the water into words

that glide     and     wave 

        across the page.

And once it is empty,

    I can finally     rest,

having purged the restlessness

    that surges     in my stomach

and begs to be     tapped

    or else it will explode.