The Field is White

Carolyn Caines

The field is white and bare,
not a comma or dot marks the way.
A perfect acre of lawn,
prime real estate.

Here is the tract where a poem
could rest and stretch out its limbs,
where a thing could blossom
displacing the silence.

Leave room for a breath after
each plowed and planted row,
the space necessary for words
to mature from prose into poetry.

The field is white and ready
for a plucking of keys
and a planting of thought.
Here is an acre that will do.