blank page.

A petal,

fragile,

furled open to await the black dew-drop stain of ink

or a field waiting to be sown with

spidery, disobedient plants that strive to grow

beyond the confines of its

neat, orderly furrows;

like Jack’s beanstalk, a ladder to

another world.

All you need to do is climb its rungs,

feet following hands,

and gently part its crisp white leaves

to find the land above the clouds.

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