None But Eagles

There is a sonnet half-written in Word that is kicking my ass. Writing used to feel like magic, words falling out and settling themselves happily in the right places without needing me to try too hard. This morning I covered a page with promising drafts and ended up with a stack of satisfying lines, but tonight, trying to fill in the gaps, there doesn’t seem to be a way to finish it. I’ve written dozens of couplets that aren’t punchy enough to end with, and so I suspect that this poem doesn’t have anything punchy to say.

Perhaps these moments, pushed hard and far enough, may bring about something good, but not tonight.