The page is waiting, clean and white, But holds no record of a fight, No climb, no fall, no great ascent— Just 30 years precisely spent. The pen rests heavy on the sill. What epic journey can I fill With Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, noon? The silent cycle of the moon. I wait for mountains to appear, For a wild, compelling plot to steer My hand toward some momentous phrase, Beyond the sum of uneventful days.