Writing
Is too lonesome...
Trees falling to vanishing ears
I think of the gruff man
Tinder in his cuffs
Blade cut
Red Faced
The hearty laugh
The woman writing
Waiting
Who loves him...
Or now the digital sparks
Bursting upon skies the color of quartz
Little pixels dancing at the ters
Commands of those who use them
The ministers of photon
Acolyte of icon
The armadas of electric
Precursors of WHAT???
My watch blinks not ticks
An hums like a small orchestra
Of animated insects
I think of the ink passed
from these hands
I think of
Stone Cutters
Artisans of quill
Graphite
Indigo
Scratch
And carve
The wood cutter
With calloused hands
Keats assuaging a cramp
Twain kneading stiff wrists
All by candle
Lantern
Incandescent
Fluorescent
Flicker and blood
Writing
Alone...
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