Tip of My Pen
I can feel the beginnings of a poem
at the tip of my pen
But I don’t have the right words
To begin my verse
My hand floats in mid-air
Stuck somewhere between my brain and the paper
I don’t know
how my seed will grow
So I wait.
From time to time
I stare at the tip of my pen
And I wonder where I’ll be when
its tip will split open to reveal
a flower bud.
that after some sunlight, some rain,
will explode and bloom across the page
with the colours and the wisdom of a sage.