we don’t celebrate
the blank page,
we abhor
its crisp
it is blessing and curse,
wrapped up together,
we fear it,
we wait with breath
arrested in our throats
for words to cover
like ivy on stone,
like mother tucking
in blanket around child,
like freight train
flattening me,
the words rise,
hover, dance,
they beckon
and I find I can sing again