One of the mysteries of the orb is how
rocks are made by recipe of pressure
and friction without motion until up
crashes lightning through layers converting
strata to pebbles.
One of the messier muddles that bastard
life leaves in the laps of its more willing
functionaries is the fostering of narrative
pearls of individual brilliance only to
string into history.
One of these mornings of bird and cloud
watching on my porch with paper blank
and shrinking intention I will string
pebbles and pearls into an inheritance
for my functionaries.