SCENT OF INK

Setting dark black India ink
to snow-white paper,
hints of old books and honey
rising from the ink,
words walking across the page,
from left to right in cursive,
in my notebook,
line by line.
To rhyme or not?
Haiku or Free Verse?
Fill the page?
The Muse will whisper,
softly, in my ear,
“Enough, the poem is compleat.”