Blank Paper Dreams

When I find time to meditate to write a line or share a verse, upon the vine or on the grape, to concentrate upon the dirt, surrendering this lovely grape tenderly nurtured on the vine in vintages of earthy brew delightful, deliciously grown, this mortal milk of mother earth. Yet, blank this paper facing me and blank the face, this paper sees. Sees this poet's blank paper dreams. Pen and ink, my bridge to paper, this bridge to cross, my destiny. This cross I bear, a word my key. The new key I seek all of the time. A time lined with appled orchards, on a hill lined with grape filled vines.