01.26.08
Inkpot & Quill
When at fragile intervals I denounce my synthetic spinstership and allow an old stabbing paragraph (which accuses me of having the mark of a cold egoist) to reprove me, that’s when I indulge in thoughts of someone. Not a stranger, but himself a gift waiting for the giver to appoint the illustrious day… and I, the recipient, wait for the same day… and sometimes while I wait, I dream.
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I dream of an immaculate page.
The sacred sheet: our faith.
I the inkpot and he the quill.
Appointed by the Author that if one is absent,
there should be no need for the other.
…and when
he dips his steadfast life
into my delicate soul, we shed our ink.
Sometimes so tenderly,
and sometimes so passionately,
sometimes so furiously,
and sometimes so simply
with only a string of joyful vowels…
we write our life.
We write
our love.
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After such dreams, the poor so-called spinster cannot help but query; if the man is superior to the woman, and even if for him it is not good to be alone, how much more does the weaker vessel need a companion?
.
becky desiderio said,
August 7, 2009 at 12:10 pm
hi dear,
such beautiful words. my eyes were misty after reading the poem. did you write it for me and the man i love?
the angels must have whispered to you to put what is in my heart into words
God bless you dear
Miracle ♪♫ said,
August 7, 2009 at 2:04 pm
=)
Perhaps it is only natural for certain people like us to wish for such things, Ma’am. May God bless you too.