Blank Page

A blank page lies before me
Like an Everest
Or a steaming jungle waiting to be conquered;
Yet I dare not take the first bold step.
Something - indefinable - holds me back.
I wait; take tea perhaps, but nothing stirs within
Except the desire to give that page life.
Still nothing.
A barren waste of processed wood-pulp.
I long to breathe life into the substance of that page.
A substance that once knew the breath of life.

A tall majestic tree;
Home to a thousand crawling things.
A welcome rest to the owl
Whose nightly prowl
Has still left her young ones hungry.

Centuries may have passed in that tree's short life
And if this page could write itself
What histories might unfold;
The warmth of Summer's love -
The chilling, freezing cold
Of the woodsman's axe
The tree would grown with the agony of each stroke
Until she yielded and fell.

Her life has ended
But not her purpose;
She still has many chores to perform.
Perhaps as part of someone's home
(She is used to that with all her crawling inhabitants
Of years gone by)
And, of course, as the page that I gaze at.

I look back at that blank page now;
Suddenly I see it is full.