The penstroke finds many ways to exit my hand. In the many movements of life,
I can barely understand Calligraphy; an ancient art, and also a practice for swordsmanship I sense, Calligraphy is bringing me closer to myself.
“Please, keep your voice down.” I asked
“Why? Aren’t you focused on your silly pen? This is my house too!”
“Goodness where is all of this tension coming from? Do you need some of
my attention to come towards you instead of my art?” I said
“Yes.” She replies cutely with a downward face.
Leaving the ink the dry on the brush I come over to her face and kiss
her lips, still as mindful of my movements as when I was practicing.
She begins coughing
and can barely handle the intensity, so I calm my approach, much like the hairline stroke.
Amongst cuddles I’m inspired to write a poem; the beautiful muse of life keeps me intwined with myself.
“Darling, I need to get up and write some more,
please allow me up.” I said, hoping for no retort.
“Yes dear do as you need, I feel you now here with me.” She says,
smiling warmly like a swan on a pond.