Ink
The turning of a season, an afternoon cleaning pens, the first pages of writing a new book (or trying to)
Sometimes the words come out like a torrent, the snarl of summer heat, like an expulsion of venom, cleverly hidden and difficult to excise. Away, away, away.
Sometimes they are a forgiveness, gentle rain as autumn swirls on a wind, a return home, a prayer just under my breath. Come in, come in, come in.
Beautiful!
I love the opposition of the paragraphs, tho somehow also completely cohesive too.
All art is like this, i think: words and images.
I'm struggling to learn to write poetry. You already know how.