A blank canvas
waiting to be painted,
waiting to turn into
the ocean
with gentle waves
slicing deeply
into the slowly falling sunbeams.
It waits
to become
the jagged edge
of the highest mountain imagined by its evil creator.
Vicious trees budding
giving birth to more complex ideas,
that will soon be on their own.
It waits
to evolve
into a mama holding her baby in her arms
in the rocking chair
in the front room
with a look
as if she'll always remember,
always remember that tone
in her baby's bright blue eyes
that's whispering "comfort"
It waits
to morph
into something it wants to accept,
something it wants to be,
something it wants to love.
It waits
for its future.