Ode to a Blank Page

The canvas is bare,

the images swirl around in my head

as if they were caught in a cyclone

look close and you can see Dorothy’s house

peaking out of the vortex of the whirling cloud.

My seat barely on the chair

for more than a few minutes

The true author casts sketches on the page

Born from unquenched hopes and dashed expectations

Mined from the rubble of the pretenses

we learned as we grow from man cub

to tearless adults.