WRITER'S BLOCK

The typewriter frantically clacks,
Turns out tickertape fit for confetti,
Then jars to a halt.
My cranium crammed full of nothings -
The last bird flew South -
Abandoned, an empty shell.

My heart freezes over:
A lake in which a golden nugget
Sunken in its depths
Turned into tarnished brass.

Ute Kaboolian