Across the blank paper
The pen tip carves
A trail, here certain,
Here hesitant. The line
has its own life:
the hand its father,
the eye its mother,
impulse its deep yearning,
movement its only voice
or gesture. Having begun,
there's no turning back.
Water carves the canyon;
swallows sweep the skies.
None of us knew
At the start where
The story would end.
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