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
Someone's poem...I should have written it down...reminded me of this one.
