Silence.

My vocal chords are not vibrating,


No worthy sound escapes their shaking,


For in the mountains I did find,


That which I wish I'd left behind,


For coughing, wheezing, gunked up hacking,


In-between my cough-drop snacking,


Is all I have to post of now,


It's simply not enough somehow,


Today I'm writing, clacking keys,


My laptop warming both my knees,


I caught up clients, e-mails too,


Phone-calls, messages old and new,


I'm editing my novel's pages,


Hoping to complete in stages,


That which I have not attempted,


A draft that once my voice has mended,


I shall read aloud to hear,


Every part to change and clear,


All the words that issue forth,


Weighted with a worsted worth,


Woven tightly, as a cloth?


Or loose and holey as a moth-


-eaten fabric; needs repair,


Who will read and enter there?


Can I do it? Will I see?


A writer I'm supposed to be?


Is this project fancy-mine,


Something worth the loving time,


Will it be a well-read book?


With the effort that it took?


I won't know until I'm done.


I must finish all this fun.


I have pages, newly written,


They can sting as though I'd bitten,


Into a lime with salted skin,


Dancing through the light within,


My progress slows, will it lift?


Back to quick, and fast and thrift?


Is the story too far-fetched?


Time and space are aptly stretched.


Readers, if you're in the ether,


Shall I post another chapter?


A novel for adults this is,


But also for some teenaged kids,


I don't know what happens next,


Now I must return to text.