Vespers
Once I vanish into an opening line, words follow on their own without so much as an umbrella or a newspaper to keep them dry. Notebook paper, damp with moisture, fills with runnels, and ink flows freely toward the edges. Pages glisten with a sheen, sleek and grey as a chrome bumper lost in a carpark I cannot remember. Off in the distant haze of early evening, cathedral bells toll vespers, my inky fingers moving counterpoint to words falling like prayer. O Joyful Light!
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Thank You!
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You are like the Pied Piper of words, Paul, summoning them to come to you, to follow you through sun or rain, and it seems like a mysterious holy act that brings it own share of light. This is another really fine poem.
Once I vanish
into an opening line,
words follow
on their own
without so much
as an umbrella
or a newspaper
to keep them dry.
Thank you to @Marisa for sharing this