It may be the restlessness of the heart that called out to the wind,
or the wind quickened the restless heart.
Nonetheless,
the blood rushed to my veins
and exploded at my fingertips--
staining the fibers woven
and occasional dirt scattered.
It was magnificent;
each curve carefully placed.
And as if it had the life of its own
the squiggly lines picked themselves up...
forming the movement,
the thought and the sight.
It had more than what I gave it.
It went beyond what I wrote.
It went...
beyond me.
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