the steel rod - two

The steel rod returns.

I am caught like a spear-stabbed summer trout immobilized in its migratory path, words scattering, mind darkening to despair, fingers trembling above waiting keys.

I name this killer of creative pursuit and it releases a little, a small vibration as shoulders fall, chest muscles relax, and the heart opens.

And from the heart the words leak.

I want to cry with sheer relief at the curtailment of certain dread that nothing exists above the steel rod.

Meantime, my good friend writes at her school of fine arts, receiving encouragement and instructions, while I sit alone receiving lessons from only that which has no name.

I must press. There can always be edits. Always.

Another deep breath. The trout escapes with a wiggle and a thrash, swiftly swimming upriver, eager to tell the rest of the story.