Ink Falls On Hot Stone

My old blue fountain pen allows The ink across the page to flow Like wet paint from an artist’s brush, And words come in a rush. Enchanted by the hand that writes, Bewitched by art, beauty alights. The script is like a music score Through which we pass as through a door. Imagination’s home. As, mysteriously to you, to me, The spirits of our hearts are tamed, By rhythms of pen, of brush, of mind. They enter vision quite unplanned, Like moths to flutter softly round Fire joined heart and hand. The pen slows down, the hand goes still And just as dreams at daybreak will, They shrink, they disappear, they’re gone, Like water on hot stone