I have writer's block. It's like drowning.

She holds raw clay in her hands and warms it, shapes it, and presses it to the earth as a man. She gives him gifts that fade. She cries and reaches for another nub of clay, kissing it before setting it down.

I imagine the goddess again as big as the moon. Time does not touch her. She grieves. Her beautiful people age. They suffer and struggle and raise wet faces toward her soft light. They wonder why.

All her little people will die. They leave her alone with the Universe and Death, who hoards her creations. No mortal has tested the earth and walked away with eternity.

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Today a scent stopped me on the wet grass. With rain trickling down my back and stuck in my eyelashes, I stepped toward the viburnum with its white clusters of blooms. Nose against the tiny petals, I breathed a deep spring breath that I cold find nowhere but here.