Occasional stars

If I am a pen,
yours is the ink
into which I dip:
the nourishment
that fills my barrel;
the words that flow through me
and out onto the waiting page.
If mine is the hand
that holds the pen,
yours is the hand
that guides my fingers;
yours the wisdom
that somehow finds its way
through all the cluttered thoughts
to sparkle here and there --
occasional stars
on a dark and clouded sky.