Paper,

the beauty of it,

the simple, strokeable, in-the-handness of it,

the way it has of flattering ink,

giving it to understand that

nothing matters

until it is printed or written down

to be cherished on paper.

The way old paper levels time,

is the archive's treasure,

is evidence talking to your fingers

when passion, two hundred years dead,

filters through the ink-net that,

pen in hand, a lover once spread for his mistress,

ignorantly scooping the archivist

into his catch.

The connoisseur of wine

keeps company with the connoisseur of paper,

as the printer, rag-testing, rice-testing,

escapes from the glaze of his computer

to explore with a fingertip

an elegant topography

reserved exclusively for types he likes

and faces that delight him.

All the same,

the virtual truths of the TV

and the ongoing game of what happens

sluice through the global drain

in a torrent of paper.

Throw it away or save it,

every day as it dies

instantly becomes news on paper.

Some intelligent people

keep house in a paper graveyard.

Guilt can be buried

in boxes of neglected affection.

Children can grow up still

toothlessly grinning from the mantel.

Paper multiplies unmercifully.

Don't be too merciful to paper.

~ Anne Stevenson

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Only on paper has humanity yet achieved glory, beauty, truth, knowledge, virtue, and abiding love. ~ George Bernard Shaw