Journal Sky

When I could write, pens, journals and notebooks were treasured purchases, perhaps in some ways sacred.  The pen's ink absorbed the texture of the paper against my hand, the nestled pen's embrace between my fingers and the paper drank deeply the potion of ink and texture, flesh and metal. 

If you look closely you too can see, the blue journal opened revealing white lines begging for the dance of words and whispers of the heart lifted up to fill the page.  And the texture of the clouds, the blue sky paper drawing you upward, to lift your eyes and hand and write.  Tell me, what would you write? Do you see a to do list? A poem? An entry from long long ago beginning with "Dear diary...." or perhaps the name of a loved one or even just your name in swirly calligraphy.  Maybe the lines become a musical staff upon which you draw notes to fill the sky with song. Does it beckon you to write? Does it beckon you to speak without words? Does it create the smallest taunt of a dream to leave your thoughts upon the journal sky?

To feel the gift of writing again, upon the journal sky and cloud college rule lines, I lift my stutter hand and write..........

Tócame, tócame