I began as a rare idea that formed in Someone’s mind
and I was put together, piece by piece, upon a page’s lines.
As time went by and my life took shape, He stood back to say, “All is well,”
but I only saw the black and white of the story I was to tell.
The telling began to run its course, and I began to see
all the blots and mistakes that made up all of me.
He cleaned me up, the best He could, and took me where I could rest,
but, with fear and trembling, I realized, I had been placed on the Editor’s desk.
He came right in, red pen in hand, and marked up all my pages;
He found each stain and mistake I had kept hidden for all the ages.
At last, an end in view, He finally ceased His cleaning,
and I looked upon my words anew, for they held a different meaning.
For, though the pages were wet with crimson,
I was finally seen as complete,
and as my Author corrected imperfection,
the white of the paper began to be seen.
For it was only through the Editor’s pen
that I could see my right and wrong.
What lay beneath, what I could not read,
had been there, all along.
©2004 Alyssa Kate Grinstead