It is a wall.
It is stiff, blank. Unmoving. 
It guards the paradise 
That she knows belongs there.

It is a stone
Waiting for her, the sculptor, 
To make it mean something.

Sometimes it glows with urgency.
Other times it is dull,
Craving the contact of a human hand.

Most of the time,
It is white and silent as a neighborhood street
After the first snow of the season,
Untouched in the early morning by human minds.

She will make it become something.
Maybe it will be a mirror
To reflect herself back 
At whoever comes near enough to see it.
Maybe it will be a portal
To a place that’s far away or inexistent. 

She will use her pen
To tear down the wall,
To carve out the statue,
To feed its hunger,
To fill the peaceful streets with energy and color.
To create.

For now they stare at each other,
Unwavering,
And, patiently,
They wait.