A blank sheet is ready for anything.
It has waited long and, if need be, will wait still.
Maybe a painter will lay a stroke,
A writer will stack up lines,
Gather them into an essay,
Or a child will chop it into a collage.

Until it is needed,
Until inspiration delays,
The sheet knows how to wait
And often in stacks,
To take into its soul
The voiceless scribbled words.

To drink its fill of paints
And delight the eyes,
To tear, or to curl,
Or to allow itself to be hung.