Sweet are words meld into
sentences
honing the ends with commas
and colons
expressing music or painting Natures
colors
a symphany accompanying a herald of song
and where the grasses grow green
and
flowers bloom in spring
a sense of joy comes as the
finger tips move the lead of
a
newly sharpened pencil over
cyprus and or papyrus sheets
leaving impressions
soon to ride upon the reveries
and dreams of those who read this
the words I write may not be
the
ones you choose, they may not
express
the sentiments as creatively
as yours
but they are mine and somewhere
someone will appreciate me
for my
unique writer’s style
if not just
for the intentions of my heart
underneath this held hand pen arises
notions of prickly white rose
stems, the
thrashings and clapping of ocean
waves,
aster meadows swaying in swirling
and howling winds mimicking the likes
of seas and seagulls soaring in concert
to the orchestration of robins, cardinals, wrens
the sounds of fresh running stream
play between the dangling of naked toes
of two lovers sitting by the bank
and sharing their palpitating
hearts
as their lives have together journeyed,
now octogenarians, they've come
back
to reminisce upon this place
where
their youthful bodies first met and touched
as I place the pencil onto this paper
ascribing the lifting of a sail upon a
mast
to ride the swales and caps of tides
raised high trying to reach and touch
the moon and stars the clouds by day
as the ocean winds take us on a
journey
gleaned in writ on page after page.
and underneath the pencil and this pen,
whilst woefully but intentionally,
I dismiss the use of a punctuation period
at the story’s end
