The pine tree growing out of rock,
Cloud shrouded pinnacle a dream,
What greater artistry than that?
Or the wind making its shriek and hum
Free from instrument or score —
What truer song?
A poem – part landscape, part mindscape,
An onerous endeavor. Is it truth
Demands such excavation?
What imagining makes real more
Than real? What riddle?
In our native skull
Illumination is more than a desire.
Shadows grow in waning light;
The pen is mightier.