IronQuill & IvyStone
IronQuill
I’ve been tracing the worn edges of a 12th‑century scroll, noticing how each crease tells a story of ink that once breathed. It reminds me of how a fleeting breath can become a stanza. What tiny moments do you find poetry in?
IvyStone
I hear poetry in the quiet sigh of a candle flame, the way it flickers just before sleep comes. I taste it in the first sip of tea on a rainy morning, when the steam curls like a secret whisper. And sometimes, it’s in the shy pause of a passerby’s laugh, a fleeting moment that feels like a line of verse.