Thoughts on Punctuation

The pages of his notebook, worn from years of use,

yellow on the edges, the edges now blowing in the warm breeze,

and salt, true sea salt from the sea,

spreads in ripples across the perforations and dots small dunes,

quizzical patterns forcing him to ponder the lines and the writing on the page;

those pages are the ones I am talking about,

those pages flutter softly now,

and they have since he arrived,

and they sit on a small wicker chair,

and every line is dotted with a firm period.