The light through the blind is a poem,
the way it illuminates air.
And the shadows that fall
on the floor and the wall
are signs that a poem is there.
The tick of the clock is a poem,
even the spaces between.
The echo of heels
and corridor squeals
are proof that a poem has been.
An empty white page is a poem,
a place where the magic occurs.
It's a home from a home
where ideas can roam.
At least for the poet, hers.