Sometimes
I think I'll stop
writing...
that lasts
a moment or two

until

my thoughts begin to form
into some force that builds
until
it has no place to go
but
down my arm
      through my wrist
          into my fingers and
              out through their ends

into the pen
         flowing from it
            onto the page

in black ink or blue
          in pencil or green marker
               pink crayon or highlighter

onto backs of bills
           old letters or jagged-edged envelopes...

any empty spot looking lonely
            and in need of being stroked

my pen strokes it and coos to it
              giving it life, giving it meaning
                                                       (I hope)
                   making it a page in my book,
                        my scattered book that may

never be bound

do I want it to be?
or
do I want it free, floating, scattered to the wind

like black birds leaving a tree
              shooting out in all directions, writing
                   their book, their black ink making a deep
                       impression in the pale blue sky, cursive writing
                            with frills and dips and curves

watch how they move, how they write it all down
                 in the heavens for all to read like books on a library's
                    shelves holding themselves out, offering their very souls

to the loving hands of all who pass by, bound pages waiting to be freed
                  to fly across our minds like blackbirds across the sky,

writing
                        
a new page there