I was writing by hand in forest green
with nothing but abstract thoughts
in between each new thrust of my
old Lamy Alloy fountain pen writing
line after line after line to see how long
I could write without knowing why.
My strokes were focused and robust.
No type written font could compare.
A fountain pen touches the heart to
the page—for the ink was smeared
here and there from my tears that
dried quickly in the warm desert air.
Who but God can read the nuances of
a wearied mind or an ink stained heart?