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.
(Orig. posted in 2016.)
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| handmade paper I crafted |
