I’ve taken to writing lately, the old kind,
my day’s agenda set down in old-fashioned ink
I draw from one of those squat, prism-shaped bottles
found at estate sales or in musty Venetian shops.

On a meadow of paper whose spring is the pen’s nib,
a woodland creek of my making flows.

For years I lost track of her, my fountain pen,
a separation born of my senseless neglect.
She’s aged well, no less shapely, I see.
As I hold and warm her, her tarnish wears off.

We start the day together, she insistent
on careful finger-and-eye interplay: artful swirls,
pleasant tilts and dips, measured spacing,
lazy backslides (the tail of the “y”),
well-placed touches (dotted “i’s,” crossed “t’s”)
and once in a while a robust stroke
let loose in a moment of mini drama (“!”).

More and more I like this, my morning begun
unrushed, with some flair, my tasks

____books to the library
____stamps at the post-office
____trash out

an elegant list in florid indigo.

© by Richard Swanson.
Used with the author’s permission.