All day,
every day,
through the
night
while you
sleep,
dust floats
upon airy parchment
to silently
describe the moment
and soon
another page
is complete.
Early, when
it’s quiet,
the faint
sound
you think you
hear
is a streak
of sunlight
that sings
the chilly
dawn breeze
into a
story.
Even snowfall
covers
a page of
barren countryside
with white
ink,
transforming
blank to verse,
rain erases
most mistakes.
On a bright
day
you may catch
hand shadows
swirling fair
weather fonts
into words
in front of
the sun,
creating a
gust
that inspires
leaves and twigs
to
choreograph the landscape.
When the
inkwell runs dry,
the rattling
pen resounds
a thunderous
clap
and the dark
hand pulls
Michael Keshigian, USA
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