When Ink Is Alive
by Odin Roark

When ink glistens,
And your love cascades beneath the quill,
Your eyes steadfast the muse,
Your touch like that of the champagne grape before harvest,
Reluctant to part the painted words
And fearful the thirst will abate,
Never fear.

For glisten though it might,
Never can the page fully become
The you that is the seed,
Generating the vine,
Feeding the fowl,
Becoming the plucked,
To be forever the quill.

When ink is alive…
Oh, my.