The cold glass brightens and warms.
The rug has a biography.
Unsaid words grow power, wish to speak out.
Ideas gather. The bones rise.
A face is a life and a place is a story.
Everything speaks, or is powered by silence.
Dreams are nudged forward.
The pen is numb with haste, but calm with plenty.
Sure, there’s labor. Sweat drips off elbows.
The words will need tuning, but the pen!
The pen shouts out loud. The pen is happy.