By Cordelia Fitzgerald … Writing is really such a vulnerable sport! Up until the advent of records, a passing, but regrettable, utterance from an unfortunate individual would probably be forgotten. Alternatively, it could be passed from mouth to mouth, but would probably die out within a generation or two. Enter writing.
Much of being is chaos; we try to shape it
Into meaning, not artificial constructs
But the meaning that is, already is
But tumbled through the weeds and brokenness
Like a 16-year-old crossing a field at noon
A little word has a lot of ground to cover in the heat
A mile of open ground to a wall and some trees
Where confusion does not want it to arrive