Homage to W.S. Merwin
Even if it’s junk,
the pencil and the paper
make more of it than writing.
The fingertip feel, inside and out,
the face emerging, sketched and contoured,
the smiles and the guarded thoughts,
all the shaded expression,
all the passion coming soon,
the forest canopy sprouted,
sudden and slightly scented,
wet as rain, warm as summer’s wind,
dark as night and here, by this pencil.
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