THE BLANK PAGE

Here I am a-staring

At my blank computer screen,

What am I about to type?

What yet hasn’t been?

That’s the wonder of it all:

When the day is o’er

Something new has been created,

A work unknown before.

It may be only rubbish,

A silly childish rhyme,

But it’s an addition to the universe,

A product of its time.

Where does the impulse come from?

Another world some say.

But I am the agent;

I am the modeler’s clay.

It’s my raison d’être.

The meaning of my life.

In my dotage I have found

An antidote to strife.