Blank Page

I stare into the waiting white,

A canvas caught in quiet light.

No tale to tell, no rhyme in reach,

Just echoes folding in on speech.

No dragons here, no roaring seas,

No whispered songs upon the breeze.

Just me, a pen, a restless mind,

And all the thoughts I cannot find.

The ink runs dry before it flows,

The rhythm hides, the meter slows.

Ideas knock, then turn away—

They promise much, but never stay.

But maybe there's a subtle grace

In not quite finding my own place.

For silence, too, can wear a crown,

A softer kind of hand-me-down.

A story waits inside the still,

Unformed, yet brimming with some will.

A poem grows in crooked lines,

A truth between the tangled vines.

So here I sit, and here I'll be,

With nothing sure, and still, I'm free.

For though no words arrive on cue,

This blank page always lets me through.