Thoughts form,
like the takingshape of a character
in ink against snow.
The limbs of the body,
arms, legs,
gestalt in sweeps of a brush
spilling sound and sense
across the page.

For that moment of
recognition,
where sensation bleeds through to
resplendence,
it is wise to surmise the source;

the well from which
ink is drawn,
and by whom it was filled.