Pausing

Whence the boiling of the mind
that cooks the alphabet soup?
Whence the letters that pour from my pen
with the quivering of nerve and finger?
Whence the finger and the nerve
that sprout from roots within?
Whence the stone and tree and rabbit,
for the words of allegory?
Ah but they have always been,
the stone and tree and rabbit,
even in the single point
that trembled dense and heavy
that was before the opening
of the yet blank book of things.
It was just the mouth of God
was pursed there for a bit
just like ours in hesitance
before the grace of all of it.