The Process Is the Miracle

Words string together

in my mind creating

chunks of meaning

and patterns of rhythm .

 

Thoughts flow through my shoulder

and down my arm,

a powerful rush 

of storm water racing

through cement drain pipes

ending in the tributary

of my hand.

 

Fingers and thumb pinch

the hexagon pencil

and guide the tip along the

lined notebook page.

Graphite lines,

curves, and dots

form letters

into words,

shaping phrases

from left to right.

 

Images emerge:

a young girl nestles into

her mother’s lap;

a cat curls up

on the tufted sofa;

the August sun sinks

like a fireball

into the horizon.

 

Writing immortalizes

my ephemeral thoughts,

a permanent imprint

of my voice,

like the fossil

of an ancient creature

long gone

extinct.