It sits inside an unfilled basket,
a table set for dinner.
It lies upon the open hand waiting to be held
and holds its breath, a ten-count pause that stills a voice from anger.
It waits upon an uninked page,
and virgin canvas patient on an easel.
It’s poised behind the heavy velvet preceding a performance
and calm inside the meditating mind.
Potential hopes within these voids as
the Something found within a willing Nothing.
Wind Rush 
2 thoughts on “Potential”