Like a Spring-time storm

My words poured over the page

Filling in the white

Like a frightening flash flood

After a few months in drought.


Just as abruptly,

My words will dry on the page,

Where they will remain,

Untouched, perhaps forgotten,

Until the next storm passes.

The pen has dried up.
No more ink flows to the page.
Does this mean the end?
Will it not get up and dance?
No, I just need ink refills.