Blessed be my fear, even the void,
the pinch that grips my waist 
when I pick up this pen.

Blessed be this exertion, 
the slow scratching of the pen on paper,
following blue lines in uncertain waves of listening.

Blessed be my breath,
the way it sounds inside,
may my ears may be trained to hear to it.

Blessed be the gentle birds flitting around my head,
landing, pecking, building nests, covering their eggs --
may we speak true words to one another.

Blessed be the light-footed spiders who live there, too,
their willingness to let me pull the threads out of their webs,
not to break them, but to see them more perfectly.

Blessed be the patient unwinding of each thread,
of respinning it into another web,
or spooling it to be stored for a later time.

Blessed be the sacred sundering of the webs,
when they are swept away whole cloth
until plain and honest are revealed at last.

Blessed be. 

Blessed be honesty.
Blessed be listening.
Blessed be effort.

Blessed be the mysteries,
the birds building nests, the spiders spinning webs,
the scratching along light blue lines.

Something to set the stage for NaPoWriMo. I need to come back to this about day 18. 🙂