In a dry spell,
rain falls, but only between your toes.
You can run, skip, and play through it,
but still, you’re left dehydrated, baked,
and crunchy.
In order to overcome such a drought,
you press on,
until another spring comes along
and humidifies your voice again.
Then, like a wet sponge, soaked
in the juice of inspiration,
again, you quench the desert’s thirst
through the perspiration
of your wet dripping tongue.
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I’m surprised no one has commented yet! I’ve been a little busy myself.
This sounds a lot like a description of the classic writers block we are all subject to from time to time. However that last stanza seemed to almost drip with sexuality, but maybe that’s just me. perhaps I’m turning into a dirty old man! : )
Ron, I know! I wonder what happened to everyone. In the last stanza, I did try to show how “sensual” inspiration can feel.