Gentle pen
Slides over the paper,
Barely touching,
Fingers adjusting,
A micro-world
Unto itself,
Hand, plastic and metal
Function as one,
And yet my fibro-fumble
Slows the pace
And distorts the letters
On the page,
Difficult to read
And low on speed
But feels right
In the dim light;
Scratching away,
Life at play,
Leaning into the game,
The eternal lane,
Slipping across
The wood fiber highway,
Whose substance once
Grew from a planted tree.
Remarkable combinations
Arise spontaneously,
Just like the words,
Flying up freely.
Not sure where this is leading,
Or where it originated
But great fun
And better than ever.