It is when my hands
find themselves in an empty place
and my mind
has somewhere it needs to go
that they seek the only vehicle they know
The ink
and my beating, bleeding heart
leap onto the page simultaneously
like two souls
hand in hand
taking their final leap off a bridge
into a river
that will accept their eternal devotion
and embrace their fate
Sometimes
at the end of a poem
I'm born again.
I close my fist
around my pen
like a newborn's hand
closes around momma's finger.
Our first instinct
is to hold love
when it meets us;
It's not part of our instinct
to let go--
I think that's why I always
search for something safe to hold
when my hands reach out
and feel only a breeze
I need something still
that only moves
when it moves with me
...like this pen.
