It’s not because I’ve been put there.
Outside is a place I have chosen.
And yet, I peer inside,
Longing to be in there.
Quell my ego
Quell my mind
They both fear
Whatever is greater than they
Or iron
Yes, even better
Be made of iron
Iron ages
Rusts
Like the lines etched
In an old man’s face
A trickle of water
Becomes a rivulet
Becomes a stream
Becomes a river
All the while eating the rock
Over which it travels
Cutting a cleft
A channel
A chasm
A canyon
The trickle of water
Becomes a torrent
Becomes a stream
Becomes a river
All the while eating the rock
Over which it travels
Cleaving a rivulet
A channel
A chasm
A canyon
Cool
On a white-washed sheet of rough plywood
In a back alley
Beside railroad tracks
On the Vancouver waterfront.
From seeking
To being
Pix to Words 