Presence

Here is where it all leads, this emptiness that shall be filled with words, and it shall go on, yes, it will go on, gap after blankness after void, and then, words, words, line after line surfacing, wafting on the undulating hollowness, the clean space, which shall be filled and we, we shall smooth along, certainly, like the certainty of the next blank page, the inevitability of the next word.

So keep your faiths. And I shall, mine.
The pages will hold, and the words will lock, for always.

Beginnings

are wondrous things. A beginning might purport a preceding end, which is a death of sorts. It could be a circling back to something old that had been forgotten, an unearthing (accidental or otherwise) of buried loves, an act of resurrecting, of breathing hope into a previously abandoned dream. It could be a picking up of a scattered life. It could be a fresh start, altogether--one small, but prominent, stroke on a sheet of paper. It could be that sheet of paper, too, clean, white, unscented.

To be still.

To be still.

Still,

this restlessness, this wandering into near nearness, this wondering if that scent is the scent of rain, of evening, or of something else. If I kept still, still enough, long enough to be still, will this wandering, this wondering, this maddening roaming in pursuit of that stillness, cease?