Regular White Paper
All it takes is regular white paper,
a pen of sorts, probably black.
The page is under the poet’s hand,
The pen is too firmly gripped.
But the page becomes a cloudy sky,
the pen, rain sheeting down.
The page blossoms into orchid petals,
the pen the plant’s stake.
Fireworks explode all over the page,
the pen is a sparkler, skywriting,
a ghost enters the room, voices
mutter on the far side of a wall.
Seasons change and leaves descend.
The poem has tightened its screws.
The regular white paper, black pen
is laid aside, the poem done.