I leave handwritten poems
On the shelf
Until I'm ready to explore
The handwriting.
Sometimes,
My penmanship
Is steady—neat and
Printed small, no smudges
To speak of.
Sometimes,
The lines are traced
Over and over again until
The words are too bold
For the thin page.
Sometimes,
I have to stare and really
Think about what I've written—
Since my scribbles seem
To have poured onto the paper
With a will of their own.
Even so,
With the endless outcomes,
I'll check up on them
From time to time;
Seeing which pieces I want
To last forever.
And most do—
In one way or another.