The paper doesn’t talk back
The paper doesn’t judge

It waits.
Patient as a window at dusk.

I can place my words down gently,
one by one,
and they stay where I leave them.

They don’t flinch.
They don’t ask me to soften myself
or hurry to make sense.

On the page,
silence is allowed.
So is slowness.

If my meaning trembles,
the paper holds it steady.

If my truth arrives unfinished,
it is still welcome.

Here,
I am not interrupted by expression,
or punished for precision.

Here,
my words are listened to
without being corrected.

The paper doesn’t talk back
The paper doesn’t judge

And in that quiet,
I remember how to speak. —Frost ❄️