top of page

Calligraphy

​

My grandfather let me grind the slim

ink-stick on the stone, mixing in a teaspoon

of water from a mug on the desk beside him 

as back-lit morning flooded the room.

​

The ink clouded the blackest black. Even

the black of my hair did not gloss so deep,

while on the page he spun out woven

characters with a flick of his wrist, free.

​

His hands, rough where lifeline

crossed the warm expanse of palm,

curved lightly around to surround my

fingers. "Jing, This is your name.

​

A roof over the head of a king

The secret of illuminating joy

The golden tint of your skin

Your ancestors and today." The lilt in his voice

​

I hear in dreams, a language lost as I grew.

He held the brush in spider-fingers spread apart,

the punctuation before the stroke flew

sweeping, heavy and deliberate.

​

Now he is old in many ways,

mirrored gray eyes

in the subtle creases of a face

and a voice I cannot recognize.

bottom of page