White, white is the fluffy blanket presently pulled out of the dryer;
Static electricity still embraces the bed spread making it unbearable to touch;
White is the blank paper taunting me from its position on the desk before me;
It mocks me in its whiteness, secretly knowing that I have nothing to offer it;
Oh how I loathe that white paper in its entirety for I know what it jeers is true.
Dry, dry is the dirt behind the cozy cottage;
Parched for the lack of rain had dehydrated the land, stripping away its ability to yield a harvest;
The farmer hopes that one day precipitation will feel generous and bestow its gift upon the earth;
But until then the dirt remains barren;
Unfruitful and infertile is the earth beneath my feet.
Rare, rare are the seeds of inspiration;
Uncommon and coveted are these treasures;
When found can bring true creativity and fertility;
This is what I search for, long for and hope for.
Welcome, welcome is the rain that washes the soil;
Making what was sterile, fruitful once more;
So is my paper now drenched with the flow of knowledge proceeding from my mind;
I rejoice in the coming of the rain.