What happens when I pen with care,
Shape each letter, inscribe each word,
Invite the thoughts to form
and move and
flow down and
mingle and spread in
rivulets that soak into the page?
Something stirs.
A question that lies sleeping
begins to dream.
It existed before words.
It has never seen its own reflection.
The question is dreaming of a river
flowing, gurgling, glistening
like wet ink.
Shelia
No comments:
Post a Comment