Written Pages
Day begins to write
on the pages of my waking,
first by rubbing out the scribbles
left by fleeing dreams, then
wanders a thin pencil line
of sound across my mind,
an easy doodle to bring
me slowly out of sleep.
Soon the page begins to fill
with the familiar, taking in
the growing light to annoint
each object with a name.
Thoughts assemble and look
for space to expand
in the paused moments
of a moving pen, some
trying to nudge out the now
with the usual bullies
of threat and fear.
And so, what was blank
has the world and me
spilling line by line
down page after page,
a passing character written
into an evolving plot.
Each morning
the universe wakes me up
and begins again
to write its story.
The only paper it has
is housed in the dusty,
self stained cupboards
of our conscious minds.
Our little lives noted
in the bibliography at the back
of numberless books arranged
in rows upon a shelf, somewhere
in the vast library
of its cosmic self.
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