Why is this blank page
staring back at me,
mocking, like an affliction,
and fraught with dread?
How can it hold such sway,
this simple emptiness?

Might it instead be a gift
left on my doorstep overnight,
waiting to be broken open
with the dawn?
A present, eager to emerge
if only I had the sense
to hold the paper
over a candle flame,
its lemon juice message
appearing, like magic,
clear and true?

Each new day is like this,
pure air, devoid of density,
but for the weight of our own
invention.

Birds do not worry the morning
or fret the rising sun.
They wait, expectant,
until its rays kiss their downy necks.
Then, stretching,
they turn to face the day,
And sing.