Fragments of wood left after the chiselís gouge.

Leaves that escape the robust cough of the blower.


I used to write about how I donít write ó

now I donít even do that, for that would be writing.


Instead, I contemplate

what point there is


in striving to mark each moment

as if words could ever stop time,


then realize words capture light

in the way of gemstones,


the way chatoyance draws attention

to the splendid surface of wood;


each word a gift, waiting to be opened.

Each moment a poem, waiting.



Text Box: Linda Crosfield

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