Deep cleaning my room last week yielded a poem, longish, written in tiny print on two pink sticky notes stuck together. Thoughts from a younger me, fifteen or sixteen, maybe.

Knowing I had typed it out once upon I time, I went digging through my files, and found another old poem instead. So here’s some nostalgia for you…

Ode to a Blank Page

By Lia Rodriguez, schoolgirl (Oct. 7, 2012)

A blank page is a world to claim, an open door, a beckon to fill it.
It is a call to make the two-dimensional three-dimensional, to turn lines into life.

A blank page knows no rules. It is an ocean vast and untamed.
“Sail me!” it cries. “Make me into more than ceaseless motion.
Place your vessel upon me, and I shall carry it.”

A blank page, to me, is wood to a carpenter; a slab of marble to a sculptor.
“Make me beautiful,” it pleads. “I shall bear your work well.”

A blank page is a garden. “If you work me,” it promises, “I will yield an abundant harvest.”
Sweat and toil bring sustenance and life.

A blank page is naught on its own. Yet without it, my work is naught.
So in alliance, we give each other significance.

A blank page is a mountain to climb. The journey has its difficulties,
but the view from the summit makes every stumble well worth the pain.

A blank page is a world to claim, an open door, a beckon to fill it.
Behind every full page is an empty page. Beside that empty page, there is a writer.
And behind that writer there is a village, who said, “Sail the ocean, climb the mountain, claim the world.
We would like to see the view from your eyes.”

Thanks for being part of the village!