I wake and roll and stretch
and before me
is the page I am to color that day.
my lines of thought - clearly drawn in a daunting black ink -
creating fascinating dancing unicorns
or ugly piles of crap
or ongoing lists of things to do
or creative swirly-ma-thing-a-jigs.
And some days
I kiss the lines with red wax
following every curve
within the lines
Blues and violets and oranges and pinks become a
and line becomes color becomes line
But the best days?
The ones in which
with a blank page