The Writing of This Line

The writing of this line

begins - as all -

from left to right.

The pen

touches down on the paper,

the keystrokes slam out on

clean white-digital-page stretched

out on the digital-screen-pad before

my wandering and inner eyes

of description and confused ambling

feeling amid the landscape

of eye and heart.

It happens there and in here

all at once.

No different

am I from

the black Labrador at

the end of my leash

and chain. Stopping –

always stopping and

sniffing for the invisible

bounty at the far point –

there –

of that vague

and mystic

trail, offing in the distance

of the snow laden field.

I am straining toward

that thing I cannot see –

that thing that is a shadow

hidden behind hope, and longing,

and my grandest attempts at

logic and insight.

I pull toward a reality

I am a bit unsure of –

marking each stop along

the way with some sort of

urine-scented footnote

or indicia that

screams: I am on your trail.

I will find you; there

is no place for you to hide.

Words pull us toward

the unknown cluster

of  rumored impressions

and the arcane

patchwork of

substance and

emotion.

If you have

not felt the hunt,

then go back into the

cave and get some rest.

Your journey

will be longer

than you can imagine.

Image from www.FountainPenNetwork.com