Blank Pages

 

i have on my desk a year of blank pages:

so little worth recording.

A year of breakfast, lunch, and dinner

that marked the day in unremarkable segments.

A year of prowling through attic and basement,

sifting, discarding, noticing what had gone unnoticed.

A year of realization of what we had,

missing the everyday, missing people, missing faces.

We’ve lived that year in the uncertain gap  

between reality and imagination, 

between the evening news and

the awful possibilities that plagued our sleep.

Blank pages,

for who could write the story

of the missing, of the lonely, of the fearful times

we’ve had? Who could write

of what we learned about ourselves

and others while we were apart?