Abundance

A poem about the rarely occurring opposite of writer's block.

It seems that words
simply abound of late.
They but hover about my fingertips
and I need do little besides sit
and allow them the freedom
to write what is waiting
only for the ink
in the back of my mind.
I've merely to release the thoughts; 
tis as natural as putting forth breath -
I've but to draw in air once more
for yet more lines to form
and flow from me so suddenly
that I can barely keep pace.
Almost like striking oil it is, 
after months of idle thought; 
an explosion of creativity
and passion erupts suddenly
spilling excess as my coffers come full.
I would I had more hands
or many voices
with which to record
the overflow of thoughts, 
drifting away almost before I catch them.
My hands ache-
Still I write.