He sat gripping his pen
The words came quick, but
they weren’t the right words.
They said what he wanted to say
But not what he wanted to mean
So he waved to his friends,
waved to her,
And wrote
And wrote

He sat gripping his pen
The words came slow, but
they circled his point
They said what he wanted, meant what he meant
But did they mean the right thing?
Were they said the best way?
Would they hit their target, and
Was their target worthy of being hit?
So he sat and wrote and burned and wrote and
She watched
And watched
And waited
And watched
Then she turned one last time
Walked to the court
and away

He sat holding his pen
It took two hands to hold it straight
But the words behaved!
The words stood still!
The words so dense with meaning, yet so clear
They burned through the veil of the world
As a sun.
And he sat and he smiled
He had created a Grain, pure thing, where none had existed,
Shedding its light, to feed or to grow
So he ran to them ran to her, yelling and laughing
But she wasn’t there
They were gone
His house was empty
His cats had vanished
No one he saw to play with his art

but a lonely little boy
walking across the street

So the old man walked outside
The boy held out his hand
And the man put the Grain, perfect Grain of art on his palm
And the boy looked at it.

He smiled

It was good.