It's not clear, the sequence
That tells. It can only
Offer what an author determines,
Slinking beneath the wordcraft,
Rattling the concepts that bind.
Not many inscriptions last
To be written of or to inspire:
Lives take place to prove
Something poetry simply cannot.
Thus each time I turn
To caress the memory of
The landscape that affirmed
My coming to inscribe my own,
I chance to render for myself
A scant interpretation
Of every rattle beneath
Every little thing.
From Blazing With Colors Of Our Own Making (CC BY-NC)