Drafting

Drafting

My pen mutters across the page.
I like the way the ink glides
Like a skater on a new-frozen lake.
I like the frequent mental asides

That flitter as I dream each word.
The ink, the page, the tiny book,
Take their place in the verbal chord
And chatter like a rural brook

Or small flags on a windy day.
My pen is directed by that wind
and is led in the north-east way.
The ink forms this letter I send

to you in your pleasant chair
that you read this verse & heed its prayer.