Some Mornings

Some mornings

I sit at my desk

the way a man

might sit on the shore

and gaze out at

the water of a lake

or the sea watching

the patterns of light

and clouds shifting

on the surface.

Some mornings

I sit at my desk

and gaze at the

empty page as if

it’s the still surface

of a pond, unruffled

by the wind, undisturbed

by the fish swimming

below, a mirror reflecting

the sky above without

giving a hint at the mystery

that is hidden below.

Some mornings

I sit at my desk

and wait for words

to appear, for the slightest

hint of movement,

for a sign of life,

and I listen to my

breath and close

my eyes and wait.

Some mornings

I sit at my desk

and nothing appears

and I hear only

the drone of the fan

spinning on the ceiling

and the sound of

my breath when I inhale

or the sound of someone

else in the house putting

a teapot on the stove

to boil.

Some mornings

I sit at my desk

and watch the surface

of the page ripple

with life, words swimming

across the paper tugging

at the lines I dropped

in the water, filling

nets, the page awash

with words, overflowing

with words, words spilling

over the edge of one page

and falling onto another.

Some mornings

I sit at my desk

full of faith

that words will

come and I will

be able to catch

them with my pen.

Some mornings
I sit at my desk

not knowing if anything

will appear, filled

with doubt and anxiety

that I’ll starve,

that I’ll hear nothing

but silence the rest

of my life, that I’ll

drown not in words

but in the pages

of an empty journal.

Some mornings

I sit at my desk

and wonder

at the miracle of

creation—of love

and life, and words

and stories,

of ink and charcoal

and wood pulp

and forests and

rivers and seas,

of clouds and sky

and wind and rain,

of how the miracle

of each breath

is filled

with poetry.

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