The Green Pen Poem

A green pen rests in a quiet hand,
Ready to sketch, to dream, to stand.
Not red with rage, nor black with rule,
But green, like spring, both fresh and cool.

It dances notes on paper white,
A winding path of leafy light.
It marks with hope, not scorn or dread,
Like ivy climbing words once said.

A gentle tool with vibrant grace,
It leaves the world a greener place.