Learning to Listen

It is a blank piece of paper with no words, lines or marks not even a doodle. Pure. The once cool metal of the pen is getting warmer as my fingers play with its texture. Waiting. An internet search, made months ago, taunts me-there are over three quarter of a million distinct words recorded in the English language. Abundant. The puppy’s antics attract my attention and I turn to verbally correct but smile and say nothing. Grace. I smooth the tear drop on the unwritten page and close the journal. Touch. I bow my head in acknowledgement of the heart mirror. Gratitude.