Cursive

In primers, in notebooks, we traced
the shapes of words with No. 2 Mongol

pencils. The heads of lower case letters
touched the broken red stitched in the middle

of each set of dark lines, the upper case
sported little flourishes. Big bosomed B,

puffer fish disguised as D; and my favorite,
the T like a cross between a boat and open

palanquin. In them, I sensed something
could perhaps take shape to lift

across the plain expanse of newsprint;
or break up space briefly, the way

so many separate wings come together
as one wing, as birds wheel and turn

in droves over the hills, on their way
from one place to another.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.