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poem submitted to "1468" poetry contest, Brian Strand, sponsor, 4/29/2026
Tonight the page waits, white as a held breath, quiet as a question I’m afraid to ask. I whisper into the hush~ oh muse, oh muse, where art thou, my elusive muse? the room answers only with its own stillness. Yet something stirs~ a spark at the edge of thought, soft footfalls in the forest of the mind, a flicker of insight slipping between ribs like a secret trying to be born. So I sit, hands open, heart ajar, listening for the whisper that always arrives late~ but always arrives. And when it does, I breathe it in~ the small miracle of being found by what I was seeking.
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