Ink and Air

Imagine a print lifted
from a carved wooden block.
Black branches cross the paper.
The ink is real,
still bright along the grain.

Whether the branches make a tree
someone else can recognise
is another question.

A first song now exists as sound.
A second is being made.
One has crossed into something playable;
the other is still becoming.

They need different sentences.

The finished render can be kept,
named, returned to.
Its words still need a listener
who can hear what arrived
rather than supply
what was intended.

In the imagined workshop,
a leaf has printed badly.
Or perhaps that pale opening
belongs to the design.
Look closer before cutting
another piece from the block.

A small change deserves
a small, clear test.

Across a lyric,
three short phrases lay down a pattern.
The next runs farther than expected,
almost beyond the breath
that carries it,

then rests.

That space might help the meaning.
It might scatter it.
The ear will have work to do.

Keep the first impression.
Give the next its own sheet.
There is room for both
without calling either perfect.

On the drying line,
a corner curls.
The paper holds the mark.
Air moves around it,
asking nothing
to be certain yet.