Prompted from last lines of the poem “The Pleiades” by Rumi.
You see clearly the glory of nothing
and stand, inexplicably, there.
You wonder where the writing
muse has gone, sidetracked
to a wooded riverbank, waiting?
Why are there no new things
to say? Where is the creative breath?
The force that moved you all these years?
There are more questions than answers.
You didn’t even pretend you’d write this summer.
And you haven’t.
Is there glory in nothing? Is this
the starting point? Here?
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