Tell me of mermaids' tears turned to pearl,
or a grandfather's gnarled finger
pointing ways to read the sky.
Stephen Hawking, face and body frozen,
dreams a paradox of movement,
unfolding black holes, new trajectories of fluency.
Blonde dreadlocks swinging, a young singer's gritty voice
reinvents Joplin, her stubby fingers hover over strings,
the very lightness of being.
That was yesterday.
This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is simply fluency.
