Poetry: The Quill
A feather flying from the wing
Became my quill to scribe this night
Of the wind in the sky
Of wide distant flight
To the moon, the stars on a cloudy day
I dip the nib to the pot
The candle flickers to the shadows stooped dance
A black line scribbles as if in trance
Twists crazed in circles from left to right
To my thoughts which with the night fly free
The page now full with this poetry
How this began or how it might end
I know not how, I know not when.
The quill in my hand, to write till the end.