Light Showers

Writing to That End

First came delicious crayon scribbles on the walls of my mind,
Then unpleasant pencil practice on lines of conformity.
We yearned to write our names right. I still do.

I walked through paper snow to a country school
Where we all blotched accidental Rorschachs from bent nibs
Often plunged an inch down into the clotted glory
Of each desk's deep, deep well of inkiness.
I almost fell in, and maybe I did.
How dirty and sinister the ink smelled.
It was full of soot, they said, because of the war,
But it could have been coffee grounds.
We did as we were told then, because of the war.
We are all part of the war effort; I can see it now.
How awkward our scratchings for beauty, and how wise.

The portentous first fountain pen, bulky to hold,
Bulky of line, hard to fill, short-lived.
I kept it forty years, large and dark and dry. A better gift of hope
Never stopped flowing, the fountain inside me.

Then came an old metal mystery too heavy for a mind to lift-
The mechanical universe-
Each letter (to someone) struck by a slow forefinger of thought,
Each key eager for openings.
Ancient Underwood, dim Gutenberg dream.
I did not know yet that people ever got new ribbons,
But I discovered carbon paper, and could believe in loaves and fishes.

O the magical roll and flow of newly ballpoint youth,
All novelty-loving, with giddy lines of inquiry.

Just in case (and out of case) I needed it, I got a Royal portable
To type the world. (Of course I did.)
I wonder at how fast our platens hardened.
How regular the clicks and zings have been, how frequent the returns,
How tragic the footnotes.
(I try to drop all tragedy to the bottom of the page.)
I have banged and battered my way this way
Through half the chapters of my life,
A fairly good machine with fairly good machines.
I keep adding power and extra features as I age-
With trashbins of typos.

Then suddenly I am computing with whirs and blips and ease,
Peering at a crystal screen that shows what I know I know.
So it has come to this, whatever this is, flicker and all.
I believe my font will change when the trumpet sounds,
And final revision must mean letter-perfect freedom.
There is surely a default we did not set ourselves.
I almost know how to write my name, as God knows it-
That mysterious scribble in His mind that lets me read Him.
I'm starting now to read His love aloud;
All my life I've written to that end.

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