poem: the first page

poem + reflection

the first page


we both blanch white
the first page and I—
a portent, an omen
and the fear of a late spring with no rain
with my own two hands
thick and unwilling
I scoop at what remains
from the last low spot in a dry streambed 
and wet the page
hoping something will grow

every time I feel this way—
as if I’ve only just awoken from some beautiful dream 
and forgotten how to write
but every time, eventually, I remember
and start walking upstream
it’s never as far as I imagine
to clear the narrows
where a thick knot of earth, roots and worry form a wall 
and where with some time, tugging and humility
the water is loosed
like pulling the lock on a dam
and that great pool, waiting
ever fed by the slow branches of snowmelt
releases—a singing joy

and every time I wonder at it
how the course of life—small as it seems 
can wet a whole field and water it
as long as the channel is open
flowing steady from the roof of the world 
fear not!
pages will not stay dry
whose mountains are packed with snow

-ZW

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it is a unique terror to sit on the brink of a new work. for me, I eased the chill of the plunge by not committing to an end form for the work. in other words, I did not set out to write a book’s worth of poetry. I simply gave my hands to making 50 poems. it became a pleasure and happened faster than I’d imagined. and it felt something like above.

the terror isn’t new—I’ve felt it at the outset of every adventure into creative life. but I’ve tried to remind myself that the wonder that got me there in the first place, to the trailhead, is a more noble guide than the fear. and that the fear itself can be explored for what’s behind it.

and as for the flowing forth of creative life into new pools (works), I remind myself that I am not the source. and the source is boundless. and there is great comfort in that. amen.

Z