i have nothing but words
and the breath about me
and the slow-caress of a wrap of wind from palms to brow, to nostrils,
reluctant to divert the path to me, when so much needs more
than i let slip by
but this, these, those
grow on and inspire me, as does the Sun, as do her Shadows, The Land,
both l'quid and moving,
so tectonics are inside and show the overlappings well deserved are
but shifts, so needed to allow the revolutions to persist
