Let me dwell in the crevices where giants pause to breathe—  

the hushed margins between symphonies of thought,  

where light slips through the cracks of grand designs  

like dust motes dancing in cathedral beams.  

Here, in the close-knit shadows, I’ll carve a chapel of my own:  

walls papered with half-formed whispers,  

floors woven from the sinew of ‘almost’,  

and a ceiling low enough to touch the pulse of genesis.  

Teach me to cup my hands around the ember before it blazes—  

to trace the silhouette of passion as it stirs in its cradle,  

a newborn star still learning its own heat.  

Let me kneel where creativity hums in its larval stage,  

a cocoon split by the first tremble of wings,  

and memorize the grammar of its fragile thrums.  

I would learn the alphabet of beginnings:  

how love ignites not in bonfires, but in the spark  

that leaps when two silences brush in the dark.  

Time’s river? I’ve grown weary of its thief-like flow,  

its sullen tide that sweeps the raw and unspoken downstream.  

Let me linger where seconds unravel into filaments,  

where moments are not coins spent, but seeds held in the palm.  

I’ll plant myself at the edge of dawn’s loom—  

watch first thoughts rise like ink in water,  

blooming into tender, tangled thickets of ‘what if’.  

See how they quiver, unborn poems clinging to the vine?  

I’ll pluck them gently, let their nectar stain my lips,  

and finally, finally learn to begin…  

For the bravest start is a root breaking through its husk—  

a quiet riot of green against the void.  

©️ Beatriz Esmer