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.