Writer’s Block

There is howling again (burrowing
in your ears) as you remember

the surge of Haiyan in silence,
those bloated bodies rotting

in the sun, that moon above
her house, the dead pets inside

the dilapidated chapel, everything
that is left unwritten with all the loss,

whatever lingers now is sacred after
you bequeath a sigh for what was

broken. The day breaks. The light
floods on this blank page.