The paper

The paper
is utterly blank,
pristine,
empty,
white like
an
endless
barren
snowfield.
The paper says nothing,
declares
nothing,
asserts
nothing.
The paper is silent.
Yet
the paper
sits,
listens,
calls expectantly for the touch
of the nib,
ink
wandering
over its surface,
in letters,
words,
sentences,
paragraphs.
Thoughts expressed in spirals,
zig-zags,
corkscrews,
winding upwards in clear blue
curves,
to the point of absolute
clarity.
The paper

waits.