This morning, words are like soap bubbles that self-extinguish before releasing their fragrance. Such is my experience sitting at my word processor, waiting for significant images to surface from my psych: they don’t—Perhaps trapped in last summer’s spider webs that had filmed the backyard railing.

Hollowness yawns, taunts me, even exhorts me to return to my novel where real words create pre-World War II Berlin, Germany, each paragraph replete with artistry I long to emulate. That’s where the real action is, so I tell myself.

Yet, I’ve a blog to compose. I will wait.

My emptiness rankles. I need help. I pray.

From within, something quickens—a tiny seed, so tiny that it’s almost impalpable, but it’s there for me to work with. I have to give it time. I will continue waiting. Then it surfaces:

The words are not mine, but a gift to renew my spirit—And yours, as well.