Between the Shapes of this World

I once thought I could take these shapes of the world and carve words out of them that would stand here for all to see and perhaps understand. I thought I knew the secret of turning things so they could say what I saw, tell what I knew. I thought this world was malleable, that I could be one of those who shaped it into something not seen before.

I wandered between the shapes of this world, finding those places that could be carved and stood there with my tools waiting for the solidity to speak to me; waiting for it to tell me what it needed to become. I had all these words waiting that I could use to shape, to form, to create.

The words and the world, though, do not fit each other. The words slip off the edges of the world. The world is too hard for the words; they break and crumble at my feet while the shapes of the world stand there, oblivious.

All I can do is heap the words up in these piles, hoping that the wind will not blow them away, that the storms will not wash them away; that they will still be here when I turn to them, looking for something to say.