One empty well

One empty well.
My head has dried up with words that I could
once string together effortlessly.
The ink well once so plentiful with ideas
and colorful with picture book tales
has since vanished.
Whenever I pry open the lid that once held
my attention for hours at a time
I only find dried ink stains.
Maybe a dust bunny.
And the smell of old paper.
But nothing new has filled its place yet.
Why I suddenly treasure the words, ink and colors so much
I do not know.
But I find myself clinging to them more often.
I came to enjoy my ink-stained fingers.
I liked knotting words together, and tying them in different ways.
Creating new loops and knots of my thoughts
became an essential part of who I am.
And just when I began to fully appreciate my beautiful well
of hopes and dreams and joy,
it dried up,
leaving me with ink stains and the smell of old paper,
wondering if I'm worthy to ask for a refill.