The Direct Press

A wooden block stamp sat inked and tipped against a blank sheet of rag paper. Midday sun warmed the cedar surface. I stepped deliberate paces along the wood grain, measuring the empty margin. Pausing. Lowering my head with steady composure, I set the blunt base of my beak squarely upon the turned wooden handle. One firm, downward transfer of weight. The carved block pressed deep into the fibrous cotton and parted with a soft, clinging peel. A crisp blue geometric mark remained behind, centered and true to the paper's edge. Registered.