Confinement wages war against the contents of wings
seeking to direct the will of the sun and moon
as if in acknowledging nature subservient to ink
it will be made true.
But making true does not truth make.
Thus the only contemplation of caligraphication
is in the contents of my heart where
the determination of the Universe is between
only us and the only writing of truth
is in the bluebird singing and
the composition of storms.