" Mysterious

My paper shines
White, like snow,
but the paper looks empty.
I could decorate it
with tiny spiders
or stars or sketches of me
looking at a blank page,
but the clock ticks,
and somehow I must write.

I like the sight
of untouched snow.
Gentle, slow, silent,
it drifts and swirls,
layers itself, and I see
a new world of mysterious,
inviting shapes. I walk in its white
whispers, susurrus.

I drift
back to this paper that feels
hard on the disk, and I begin
to listen-
to the story I tell myself.

The paper is a white, patient place,
my private space
for remembering,
saving: spring sun on my face
venting and inventing,
arguing with my mother,
wondering: who am I,
wandering through cobwebs of old dreams,
crying, sighing at people who don't see me, hoping to write music so blue
listeners forget to breathe,
playing the sounds, jamming with myself,

changing
....into the me I can't quite see. "

― Pat Mora , Dizzy in Your Eyes: Poems about Love