It is a startling thing
To find the reality in the mood,
To see the nearness in the attitude,
All of this like a dyers pen, writing softly on the soul,
Feeling the damp cloth beneath, feeling the warmth
Of the body,
As it finds itself,
With each stroke, and turn, and guided groove
Of the pen,
Which rests so gently against
The cloth,
Brushing it, touching it, making the feel of it
So soft, so gentle, with a touch of roughness
That makes it real.