It was such a little thing
As I held it. Between
My fingers. It felt like
Well…what it was
...
I face the wind;
Currents of time that score my brow
With textured text;
...
Like the air that orchestrates chimes
Or rides on the waves of a cymbal
Beneath its surface; there is rhythm
...
I lay the glass down
And rest my eyes upon its ring
Of condensation
...
The anvil’s smith
Dreams of clouds
As he hammers steel
Into iron bars.
...
As I crease each page with the pressure of my point,
Cutting into the flow of each character,
I strive to lay lines to the surface of meaning.
...