Writer's Block

I spent the morning flipping
records like crepes on the LP
machine waiting or there to be
something for me to write to
you about. I watched two petals
fall from the fully bloomed
geranium on the window sill.
They flew down like baby blue
jays leaving their mother's nest.
I listened to the whistles and
chirps outside and imagined
they were part of the music coming
through the speaker by the door,
for they are already part of the
music of life. And I stared at the
blank page in front of me, a letter
addressed to you, and I waited for
there to be something for me to write
to you about. The overwhelming smell
of mint in the garden, the twins
practicing violin in the apartment
building next door. Even the scratching
sound of rope against concrete as a
little girl skipped and her way
down the sidewalk to the nearest park.
The sound startled me and raised me
from my seat. I thought maybe the
record was stuck, but it was just me
listening to the music of life
waiting for there to be something

for me to write to you about.