Cursive Reclaimed

 

How odd that you've never seen

My hand set pen to paper,

Fits and starts clearly

Tracing crevasses skirted;

Patches of all-fours scrabbling;

Wild downswoops across ice so blue

It waits breathless to melt

And wing you skyward, transfiguring

The cloudspace between words.
 

So many tidy electron-edges here

That the universe encompassed by

An inkblot is remote as Andromeda

Or yesterday's tears.
 
 

- David W. Mitchell
 

to David   /   to Moongate
.