Every page, a blank, bottomless well,
A snow storm of infinite depth and size,
Offers the bold many stories to tell,
But remains blank to the timid and wise.
The foolish plunge in, get lost in the white,
And struggle to find the way back again.
The daring rely on much more than sight,
Intuiting paths beyond others’ ken.
They follow shadows, ephemeral, quick,
Darting and drifting through dim, snowy light;
Capturing thoughts, each exceptional brick,
Building exciting adventures to write.
A writer dances on many stages,
Partnered with shadows from many pages.
I've spent many hours staring into the white emptiness of blank pages, seeking shadows of the words hidden there...