I have been observing a strong writer-resistance to submitting my written words for formal publication. Self-reflection has yet to determine whether this is because of inertia or pride. It is much like the unease generated in allowing a photograph to be taken of oneself within a particular moment; freezing the instant while immersed in the process of aging and change.
It is the uninterrupted process of change that gives the truest delight. What is written is the decayed manure of the present in its seemingly endless decomposition.
The one who writes this is no more than the child who once ran alongside riverbanks in cicada-drenched air seeking out eel shadows in the infolding of water under a pristine sun. My words make present again his real presence yet he is buried within the words that consecrate who he is.
morning fog —
the flesh of shadows
cast by words