Thumbs Held.

You had words, and ideas, lined up for miles. Had hours to yourself and no one to interrupt your restless meanderings, your impatient heart.

And then the inbox rang with the slightest tremor of potential, with just a morsel of hope, and your words stop dead in their tracks, quivering, unsure where to go.

I must bide my time now, wait for answers beyond my control, hold my tongue. I count the minutes, remind myself of realities, forgive myself the wasted words.

The puzzle pieces will fit, eventually. The picture may not look as you had planned. But it was never painting that was what you do. And the words will be waiting, till you've found them a home to grow.