Tuesday, August 5, 2014

64 x 6 (We Do Now)

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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