The blank page waits, offering no help but for intimidating silence
steering me away from the emptiness to the view out the winter window –
the dreary garden
the falling rain.

The cursor blinks unmercifully, questioning all my choices –
my use of time that wraps around me and flies away;
the mistakes I’ve made in the material world, yesterday,
the ones I’ll make today and tomorrow, thoughtless and unaware –
the tedium of idleness
hours stealing away.

A word pokes its head out of the brambles following a line –
where it is going or where its path will lead I cannot tell.
Something is trying to emerge out of the thicket – a small bird
poking around from branch to branch, alighting, vanishing
seeming careless or carefree, wandering through the tangled growth
seeking something just beyond its reach, knowing it is there.

I, the bramble and thicket.
I, the bird.

Portland, Oregon – January 23, 2020