poem written based upon this image
the vintage typewriter waits, its keys resting beneath a page that resists becoming ordinary lines from that subdued expanse, a mountain rises, a cabin folded into stillness, a blue stream slipping through the distance the page imagines. small white birds drift above the picture, as though the typewriter has released fragments of a dream instead of words. they hover like thoughts rising from inside the mind, tiny wings carrying them toward whatever waits beyond. the light from the desk lamp falls across the picture, a gentle benediction~ remind me that creation begins when machinery yields to imagination. the page becomes a world, and the world becomes a doorway through which the writer steps, carrying only the brightness that first rose from the keys.
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
