Writer's Block

She's here, visiting
-I'm not sure how long -
gravity gone askew.

I write ten
  blah blah oblong poems
from perfect pearls,

never to be worn.

It's as if beads of a necklace
I am stringing drop,

and scatter
                 across the floor
     in    different
directions,

         hide under the couch
and disappear
                   into heater vents.

Like my soufflé is
                    falling,
oatmeal cookies
             burning and
long composed songs
are foldered,
as drafts.

And yet.... when she sits besides me
drinking her coffee and I drink my tea,
if my schedule remains undaunted,
       the fantastical happens.

            It begins to rain.
I sit at my table without an umbrella
water splashes onto my computer,
rolls down my face,
soaks my clothes to the skin.
      Puddles form on the floor.

That's when she kisses my forehead,
gives me a hug and
fast as she walked in
                          she walks out.

When home from school,
my son doesn't notice
the rain in the house.
I hand, this young critic
of most of my work,
a poem that he reads word by word.
    "Wow Mom!  I like it!"
he says and then asks,
"Did you make any
oatmeal cookies?"