She lies on her bed and stares at the ceiling
while her body is heavy from a cold.

The smell of miso soup and warm squash
cooked in dashi, shoyu, and sugar
comes from the kitchen.

As she looks at her empty notepad,
she sees the clock’s rotating hand.

She stares at the uncreated
until words assemble and sounds connect.
The room fills with stories.

—Ann Inoshita