Our
Guided fingers smith
Text across blank space.

Worlds in a
Waterfall of fonts
Tug clothes further
Down current lines and pages.

As children,
Explaining circumstance
To the assembled mass of plastic
Army figurines, our smithing
Was breathing life into the inanimate.

And now, those pieces remain still,
As still as the water of
That waiting reservoir
Once so aptly tapped,
Age has ground in experience,
And the drawing comes with difficulty.

Now, glaring at sharp
Whiteness our fingers ache
With readiness, longing to
Wordsmith these old worlds.

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