maybe it is because
I bought this purple
pen, or maybe I wish
to hear the scratch
of ink on paper, the
“swish” of my hand
trailing across the page.
What would happen if
I changed colors halfway
through this poem?
Would I continue writing?
Or would the words
seem to float off the
page – vanished.
I can’t go back – I
could continue in blue
or pick up the purple
pen yet again.
What does it matter?
The poem is still here
on the page.
So many times I just
don’t know what to do.
Does it matter? After
all, color is color, the
purple ink reminds
me of Spring – Easter
baskets and Sunday
dresses handmade by mom.
Blue conjures the ocean
on a sunny day – always
near Provincetown.
In both memories I am
smiling.
But I need to get it write (right).
If I am to use permanent
ink, colored no less –
If I am to press the pen
into this blank page –
running my hand along
the smooth sheet,
maybe I can sit back
and enjoy the colors,
the memories evoked
and allow myself the
right to choose
either shade.




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