A few words well-written,
developed and made real—
are subtle currents that run
through the river stones of our bones;
what our blood is made of.
Somewhere inside a very quiet place,
gravity is pulling our bodies upwards
the force of wild water
captures the brilliance of sun,
feeds it into the darkness of earth.
The love the soil has for the sky!
A blue so blue only blood could be more red!
The written lines of others fill my poems—
I take no credit.
I awake each morning and fumble with images—
“Ask them!” she says,
“Have them show you the way
down the long ocean-road.”