The Silver Needle and the Mountain Stream

The pen hovers above the drawing pad,

A silver needle stitched into the silence

Of the white paper.

This is the edge of the transition:

The heavy pause before the ink breaks,

The sudden spark where the abstract

Becomes a solid, permanent line.

Then comes the momentum, the quickening pulse,

As the first stanza spills like a mountain stream.

The nib glides across the tooth of the paper

With a velocity the mind can barely track.

Metaphors gather weight as they roll

And speed like water in a narrow valley

Tumbling forward until the ink flows like a

Living current from the mind to the waiting paper,

Blurring the border between the hand and the thought.

The letters lean forward, breathless and urgent,

Tracing the path of a feeling that refuses to stay still.

It is the rhythm of a heart finding its stride.

The transition from a spark to a steady flame,

Until the final period is placed as a sudden brake

On a speeding carriage.

But the paper still vibrates with the heat of

The race that just finished, leaving the scent

Of warm fiber and drying ink.

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