Instant message

The writer wrote and wrote, drop after drop of ink skydiving out of the pen to land on the page, saying nothing and everything. Meanwhile the wind wrote and wrote upon the earth in its transparent language. The fire wrote upon the wood, and, in doing so, destroyed or transformed it. The smoke sketched its poetry upon the sky, which tore it apart and scattered it to the four directions. The waves wrote upon the shore, endlessly revising. The light wrote upon the darkness and the darkness upon the light, the night upon the day and the day upon the night. The sun writes flowers on the earth. The earth writes people on the sky. The people write poems. The poems contain things like people and animals, suns, moons, and stars, fires and winds and waters. The poems cradle these things gently like immense hands. Everyone knows that people write poems, but what's a little less obvious is that poems write people too.