pens, tree trunk
transporting nourishment
of our hearts to the edges
to the far
reaches of branches, twigs
our fingertips
gently coaxing words into being
our juiciest guts
appear in a moment
from the heart
apparently
bypassing the
mind’s inclination to construct
oozing into
colored lines
wet
curved, looped,
dotted, pricked with a point, straight
this is what
pens do.
flowing ink that
leaves its sentient trail along the page in shapes of symbols
we recognize as
letters,
words we have
woven from the experience
of tangibility,
feelings,
all simply directional
pointers
abandon –
for just a few moments
–
the plastic
keyboards of electronics:
always conveyers
of legible lettering, homogeneity of shape
not always so
well-connected to the pathways
of the heart
pick up a pen
find the
landscape edge of a page
remember what it
feels like to be four
with a crayon
draw the words
out
onto the paper
perhaps handwritten
words are the bridge between inner
and outer landscapes.
as are tears.
a smile or
giggle.
a grimace.
an act of
handmade beauty.
(Originally posted in Aug 2015)
All blog images created & photographed by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted. Please circulate images with photo credit: "©2016 JenniferJWilhoit/TEALarbor stories. AllRightsReserved."
