On the Edge of Becoming

Sunday morning sunrise

and the world awakens again,

the silence broken only by

the sound of your pen

scratching the surface

of the page.

It's the same each morning.

You don’t know what

your voice sounds like

until you take the risk

of opening your mouth

and letting the words

tumble out, half-formed,

until you let your pen

begin moving across the page,

to see what will flow,

not knowing what

you have to say

until you read the words

that appear beneath

your pen as it moves

across the page.

What can you say

about something so mysterious

as voice? Some people

think you can find it

if you devote the time

to search for it as if

it’s outside you like

hidden treasure or

an unmapped island, and

all you have to do is keep searching

and like an explorer (before satellites

and GPS) you'll stumble

upon it, if you're lucky.

But what if it’s not something

that exists outside you or

that you have to search for,

but, instead, is part of your body,

just like an arm or leg

or like your eyes or ears,

and it’s just a question

of listening intently and

letting it speak and being able

to acknowledge its presence,

like your heart or soul, a part of

your body that you become aware 

of when you pay close attention 

to your pulse, the way you pay 

close attention to your hopes

and dreams?

You find your voice, I think, only

when you stop searching for it,

when you step off the boat and

put down your pack and sit

and wait for it to emerge

on the page in front of you.

Open your ears and listen

to the silence for in the silence 

is your voice, your words

waiting to be spoken,

your stories or poems balanced

on the edge of becoming,

waiting to emerge.