We Create

In the solitude of pen,
the structure of sentence, we
create.  And every idea is sand —
reconsideration variable, tide,
the work of wind in hallways,
meeting rooms, the voices howling
across the bones of truth;
the bones restive and resolute
with the power of a reality
set in stone.  As though there is
permanence in stone.  Speak
with any sandbar at the
terminus of a river and it will
tell you tales of the days when
it was rock, the cliff face,
the terminus of time’s advance.