To Paper.

Tonight the blank page stares back at me.
   It that a challenge?
   Do you want to fight?
But what is there to fight?
    Would it be better to dance?
   I can dance with my pencil,
    Leaving trails of thought.
   I can make her swirl and loop
    And slide straight as can be.
   In our dance we make art,
    Not just for me and for your,
   But for any who may come 
    And read.

There is no fight to be.
   Only the art and expression of 
    A man.  A man of earth.
     A spiritual traveler.
      An earth-face wanderer.
       A galaxy spinner.
        A universe expander.
   Listening to the winds of thought,
    Blustering above my senses,
     I dip my fingers into the 
   Slate gray stream and jot
     Down how the water feels.
   Salmon jump in there.
    Bears earn their fill before sleep.
     Moose drink deeply.

All I do is bring it back from 
  No Where.
    So it can become 
      Now Here.

I will not fight you, blank page.
  You are not my enemy.
    The pen is mightier than the sword
      But I will not use it against
  You.

You are my friend.  You listen
  Without judgment.
  I can trust you to keep my thoughts 
    And rants and laments and joys.
     They will endure because of your
       Trustworthy face.

How many before have danced with pen 
  Upon you?
    Millions?  Billions?
No two dances ever the same.
    Even the Holy One of old danced,
     With his finger on the hearts of 
       Men, 
         Inspiring them to dance his words with you.