We call it “a beautiful hand,”
the trace a practiced pen leaves
on its travels across the page.

Or a fine hand, whose sleight,
swift and surprising, makes
old letters new and delights

the dulled and scampering eye.
Swash and tail entice the reader
to look again, slow and consider

what it is that catches the breath
just where a spur leaves the stem,
or where the spine curves.

Men and women of letters learn
by inscription: the shape and space
of an O teases the mind

to a place just beyond reason. The S
summons us to a winding way and the T
offers a place to alight.  Alight

and watch the alphabet unfold
its thicket of veins and tendrils,
its solid declarations, its secrets.