January 13, 2011 Day Eleven

A glass, round base, clear stem, goblet reflecting a journal of home-made paper, a white laptop, this notebook.  Deep ruby wine trembles as subtle movements of my hand across the page disturb the equilibruim, a small earthquake of words.  The earth does not split open, wine-colored lava does not flow, but minute shifts in fluid, small readjustments visible until my hand pauses, my breath, my eyes.  I am still.  The wine quiets and settles, praises the stillness, begs to be tasted.