A Year of Poems – Day 134

How much can I write till this pen runs out.
The ink runs smooth till the pen nib will scrape
the paper leaving an impression but no mark
on the world, like a farmer who plows a furrow
and forgets to sow the seeds so the dirt falls back
barren.

The scrapes and scars on this paper world
are only useful if they bear fruit
which will run like a river of ink along the furrows
scraped by the author’s plow bringing a river
which runs through this backyard plot
and will water the soil long after the stream runs dry.

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