Each time I put pen to paper

Each time I put pen
to paper the pen takes
an unexpected turn,
this way or that,
a new path I hadn't
seen before that moment
of discovery.

It's what makes the
act of writing so
fraught with tension,
the not knowing
what will happen,
the not knowing if
anything will happen,
or if the pen will stand
motionless over the page
not moving at all,
leaving the page as fresh
and unmarked (without
a ripple) as when
I sat down to begin.

The secret to writing is,
simply, to begin, to let
the pen move across the
page, not knowing what
will come next, the nib
touching the blankness
of the page, and, like a
pebble skipping across
the still surface of
a pond, sending ripples
outward, reaching
toward shore.