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Today,
paper and pen
are what I need on desk.
And better still, a cup of tea,
steaming.

I would
draw the curtains,
let only enough light
to come through the muslin, plus wind
just right.

Eyes closed,
on the paper
I let my pen lead me
to some land I’ve never trespassed,
but in dreams?

Mountains,
folds and creases,
lakes and streams are ink blots,
trees are the textures of the page,
and scents.

People
you dearly miss,
are strokes of words you write,
spelling messages sent afar,
reached safe.

[a cinquain]

*     *     *     *     *     *     *
photo courtesy of bernard, taken in waitomo, new zealand.

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