She returned to the dust-laden desk
like a burdened sinner to the confessional,
but the words refused to come freely.
They forsook her, her constant allies,
for she turned not to them as often as
unspoken obligation dictated.
Now, she spins no word-web of gold,
unaided by the agents of sophistication;
the rich gold dust of her imagery is
a hundred removes from its erstwhile brilliance.
Post the better part of an hour spent
laboriously striking at desiccated rocks that
yielded no water, the prodigal child
turned to suppliance:
“Omnipotent Word, help me find the words again…”