As I reach across my desk
To find the ink I need
To make the mark I deem the best
To neither smudge nor bleed
I needn't look, for touch alone
Tells me of the line
I know the color and the tone
The nib both coarse and fine
A rounded cap, a metal clip
Ridges on the side
Subtle dimples in the grip
A body flat and wide
But no matter what I know
Without the aid of sight
I cannot say if ink will flow
Until I start to write.