Ode to the Blank Page

Blank page, I stare at you, but nothing happens, I stare at you like I’d stare at a garden watching it grow, if I stare long enough I see plants emerge and grow, but nothing grows on you, no matter how long I stare.

How do words grow on a blank page? Where do they come from? Who plants the seeds?

The page is a garden of words, sometimes carefully laid out, sometimes weedy and overgrown, look carefully, you never know wach’ll find.

Some gardens are filled with shiny precise words, in others cloudy ambiguous words hold sway, in some the words are happy bright and cheerful, in other gloomy dark and bitter, the possibilities and combinations are infinite.

When words eventually come into bloom eventually, the blank page accepts them all without comment or judgement, like a garden accepts whatever takes root.

The blank page: a place of infinite possibilities.