Graphophobia

I have not written in years--
and now I notice my hands
have wrinkles-- no longer smooth
and young. Like my mother's hands--
when I would hold them during church
and pick at her fingernails until she pulled
them away and gave me a hymnal to play with instead.
I have not written for fear of
what it could do to me.
What if it lifts the rug and opens the spot, in the heart,
that all mothers must seal and guard
with a flaming sword--in order to keep loving
and losing and loving
again? What if I discover I can't write anymore?
That my words have dried and cracked
and that my hands are now exposing what would
come out of them if allowed to lift the pen?
Or, what if I am released by it--into a lake
I haven't sunk into in years?
What if it sanctifies--
and it's fires burn me holy?