By Paul Roberts
On Writing
those are my hands
now wrinkled
veined
pained by a lifetime
they digitize words thoughts heard
read and said
onto a page
hands as time worn
as those of an ancient scribe
crafting each jot and tittle
spoken by
the voice from the universe
onto parchment
or papyrus
seeking to save and savor words
inspired from above
I write and save as
a child precious
a child I would not lose
but send
as a mystical message
into the cloud
to preserve it forever
I am no different than the man who
pressed stylus into clay
then sent his message
with a push
into the fiery oven
hoping, believing
that his ideas
would reach across time
preserved
chiseled
by an ancient concentration of
will, thought, and action
praying for the blessing
of touching just one heart
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