Traces

A quill, a brush
Dipped in black liquid
The scratching sounds against paper
Up, down, curves, loops
Precise or random

This river of ink that is my words’ blood.

It dances and twirls when moods are calm.
It jerks and cuts when tempers

I've been playing on the computer too long I think
As I look down
At my granddaughter and her pen
With its beautiful dark blue

The needle scratches
And etches my skin
As the blackness flows
To fill each line
The outlines completed
Next come the cobalt

I shook my pen until I found,
black ink on my face and all around.
Ink dripping down my nose and cheek,
I didn't know my pen