Where is the written doe headed, through these written woods? To drink from the written spring that copies her muzzle like carbon paper? Why is she raising her head, does she hear something? Perched on four legs borrowed from the truth she pricks up her ears from under my fingertips. Silence -- even this word rustles across the page and parts the branches stemming from the word @3woods@1. Above the blank page, poised to pounce, lurk letters, which might spell trouble, penning sentences from which there will be no escape. There is, in an ink drop, a goodly supply of hunters, eyes winked, ready to charge down this steep pen, circle the doe, and sight their guns. They forget there is no life here. Different laws, black and white, hold sway. The blink of an eye will last as long as I want, allowing division into little eternities full of bullets stopped in mid-flight. Nothing would happen forever here if I said so. Not even a leaf will fall without my go-ahead, nor will a blade of grass bend under the full stop of the hoof. Then is there such a world where I wield fate unfettered? A time I bind with strings of signs? Existence without end at my command? The joy of writing. The prospect of preserving. Revenge of a mortal hand. Copyright © Joanna Trzeciak. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHAT WE SAID THE LIGHT SAID by JAMES GALVIN PISGAH SIGHTS by ROBERT BROWNING THE CHURCH-PORCH by GEORGE HERBERT TO HESTER [SAVORY] by CHARLES LAMB IN THE LAND WHERE WE WERE DREAMING by DANIEL BEDINGER LUCAS HOW CYRUS LAID THE CABLE [JULY 29, 1866] by JOHN GODFREY SAXE ODE SUNG AT THE OPENING OF THE INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION by ALFRED TENNYSON THESE ENDURE by MARION H. ADDINGTON ODES: BOOK 1: ODE 12. TO SIR FRANCIS HENRY DRAKE, BARONET by MARK AKENSIDE |