“I dwell in possibility”
The poet Emily Dickinson wrote
Of portraits not yet painted
And of music as yet without notes.
The inspiration’s hovering
Above the canvas smooth and still,
And yet I hold the paintbrush
Like a writer holds his dripping quill.
The colors dance behind my eyes
And in my heart like butterflies;
I wonder what with colored flair
Will possibly be painted there.
It’s like a secret not yet heard,
A poem yet without a word.
But whispers dance along my skin,
They tell my paintbrush to begin.
I think it’s hope that gets set free
Dwelling in possibility.