it’s white and empty like the page before ink:
unwritten and open as the sky.
possibilities extending in every direction
stretch and yawn, and then dance
just waiting to be pried open by time,
by circumstance, by surprise.
that’s what you hope for, anyway, as letters and
words and ideas fill the page as you watch.
they say that it’s darkest before the dawn and
maybe they’re right, or maybe they’re wrong,
but there’s no way to tell except to
just keep on writing.