Words and Witness

Poetry doesn’t arrive like a guest,  

ringing the doorbell, bouquet in hand.  

It is the breeze you didn’t notice  

until it shook a single curtain corner,  

or the way sunlight inks itself  

across the edge of your table,  

an invitation to look closer, softer.  

To write is to sit completely still,  

noticing the world moving around you,  

a strange magic in the smallest things:  

the split lip of an old book's spine,  

a stranger using your heartbeat rhythm  

to skip rope between their own thoughts,  

your voice borrowed, then folded differently.  

Reading does not teach, it unravels—  

a thread wound tight around your chest,  

loosened by the careful tug of attention.  

You meet the writer in that hidden place  

where their sentences begin to breathe.  

It’s less a lecture, more a quiet handshake:  

two minds touching, unfamiliar yet familiar.  

It’s not about the answers or endings—  

just the way the page looks at you,  

asks you to leave a part of yourself  

in the blank margins it holds open.