I begin...

I begin as an old woman might, ancient spotted hands that have seen too many years bending gently around a pen. The words are there, just barely beyond reach, dangling temptingly like large fruit above a groundstriken and hungry herbivore. Slowly, cautiously, I write. Like honey, the words begin to flow, fingers gradually remembering their strength and purpose. Will these words be read? Will the force and passion behind them fade so that only the shallow letters are visible? Only the cruel mistress Time will tell, with her unforgiving notation of seconds, minutes, days, and years.