Moist

Some time ago I stopped writing poetry. I am not happy about that so this is about that.
love 
kj

Where is that well of words;

gurgled streams moving

through the right and best place,

a channel for my brand

of perplexity and observation?

Those words used to flow

 sputter and drip too;

they'd drench me with the chance

to rightly see--

A waterfall it was, 

no effort just gravity; 

just my keyboard,

and feeling fingers.

I stopped writing water words:

now I think but don't record

and I don't know why. 

But I still turn to the the waves and trees.

and I still try.

I know this much: what yearns

Is just the whether

of a waiting sky.