whence this comes

i move my pen
make shapes
that turn to pictures
i move my pen
make shapes
that turn to words
the ink bottle
filled with ever drying
cracking ink
seems to somehow bleed forth
a little more
each inch drawn forward
this my eternal soul
is not as shallow or as finished
as i so often think
the lines seldom wavers
curves seem never end
my God
i rediscover
every day it is you
whence this comes
it is you
whence this fountain springs
my God
i discover every day
it is you
to whom my heart still wakes
indeed you
whence all things are
and ever i hope
to always dip into my feeble heart
and find more of you there

-David B. Finlayson
06/14/1998