Ellie Evans

My ink stick,
two inches long,
a thumb’s width thick,
gleams like coal.

In my dish of stone,
the size of my palm,
with a teaspoon of rain,
I grind it

and grind it and
grind till a black eye of ink,
thick and concave, winks;
then my fat wet brush

stains its tip,
spreads on the rice-paper,
grows mountain-tops,
waterfalls, trees.