The Calligrapher

You look and see a garden of flowers,
All leaves and vines and petals.
Black ink; an odd, yellow sort of paper.
(Look close: a cat hides beneath the juniper)

He sees four hours of practice and work.
A million speckles of ink on his favorite shirt.
That spiral, there, near the butterfly net
Took such a long time to perfect.

His picture is hung there, for all to see,
But each takes only what they want it to be.





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Milo! said...
Mar. 24, 2010 at 8:48 pm
This is a great poem because it's something we can all relate to at one point or another.
You should check out some of my stuff. I think you would like it.
 
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