My fountain pen in hand to press the page,
a tree for thoughts with sap in burly case
to flow its heart for others to engage,
a maple stem for words in ink to trace.
Its root a nib to fill its dark blue vein,
in polished branch alive by fingers’ clutch,
with dripping cut by which it bleeds and stains
upon the paper it pumps my pulsing touch.
Perhaps its pensive pace is waste of time,
a time of cyber signs so quick to say
by rapid speed and easy spilling lines,
rejecting paper, pen and slower ways.
Yet this pen by inky marks my soul contains,
and yearns to pour itself with love again