Here I sit, the page waits for the stain
trusting that I will do right
I don’t know if the page remembers how it once was
house for birds and shade for writers
I wonder as I sit by its kin if they know of each other
I sit and wonder
why it trust my hands as if I never cut down
why do you trust me to write these words I call poetry
I sit and wonder.

In wonder, I sit and cry only a little bit
For I think I may not be weak
I manipulate this ink to speak
what my mouth struggles to word
like
I Love you
I honestly do.
This blank is loving arms for a heart that longs to be, embosomed
it is ears to a voice that knows far too much of silence
this blank trust my hands, for that
in wonder, I sit.

Wonder sits with me
under this tree, or by the stream
or on this page, or the gathering dust collecting books
by the loud and quiet of my heart
wonder sits with me
because you are close to me
I know what a silly thing to write on the page,
that trusts for something called poetry.
don’t you wonder?