Before you put pen to paper
you listen for a voice,
for words,
for something--
a sound, an image, anything--
but hear nothing
except silence,
see nothing
except an empty page.
It's only once you touch
the page with your pen
and begin moving your hand
that you can hear something,
see a shadow cross the page,
and hurry to catch it
the way you might try
to catch a rabbit
or a butterfly.
It's as if nothing can happen
until the pen parts
the sea of silence
and reveals a path
that you can follow
(even if you still can't see it,
can only feel your way),
knowing the ground
beneath your feet
is solid and you're not
walking on clouds
or thin air.
Maybe you can see a bridge
high above a river,
and you can see the light
reflecting in starbursts
off the surface of the water below
as you cross the bridge
drawn by the sound of music in the distance,
notes you've never heard before
that keep drawing you closer to its source,
hidden in the woods,
waiting for you to arrive.
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