I’ve relied, depended and learned a great deal from that mighty feather, the quill that now is a pen.
She wrote a great deal, whether at home, park or school
She never needed time or any kind of fuel.
Her bag always had a combination of verso and recto
Nothing could disturb, no glass breaking, no echo.
One thing that she loved the most, was her today’s quill
With that pen between her fingers, she’d sit still.
No voice they heard except the scribbling on paper
With that extended pen that to finger tip would taper.
That scribbling sound was remarkable for her
Her thoughts in a maze it would stir.
The dark blue ink from that ink-pot so new
Was soon diminishing from plenty to few.
But she wouldn’t care until she had her words
So much she said her books were worlds.
From sorrow to happiness they held it all
She just didn’t stop and let the ink fall.
That small little nib was her only love
The keyboard keys, mobile touch pads, nothing was above.
The cap of the pen always would lie so distant
Putting it back on its nib she would be so resistant.
The ink held her tears, they held laughter too
It helped her in and out, helped her struggle through.
To write wouldn’t be fascinating without that sign
She could write down everything, not words but mime.
She still does that business of writing and all
Words to sentences to pages no recall.
It releases all pain says so many stories true
These small little incidences memories outdo.
Heals she says, holds so much pleasure as well
No print, no text can cast this spell.