writing inside the white

when I write of what I see, in emotion recalled, my letters are not impressed upon the space. My words arise from the space, are translations of world through me and me through world. In this way all is related like the imaginary lines of a constellation. The stars are there; the night sky is there. What lies between is poetry—shaping perception, shaping space.

flows living water

colorless

over stones
lichen-white

rounded

as if your muscles
under shining skin and your arm

curved

arc of shoreline
flaring red or gold your hair

wind-woven

branches shade
to sun flows the river

ribbons

sky as if your eyes
into body so much

breath

(now the ears of my ears awake and/now the eyes of my eyes are opened)—e.e. cummings