Albo P Fossa—February 4, 2003
Words mark our path in the dust.
I rose in the east and learned the words. I set out for the west. Bit by bit I learned the bytes and words of the boxed beast. I wiped the screens and blew the keys free of dust.
I wrote of the loves of my life: my wife, my land, my home, a tree, times passed. We lived in a home we called Stone’s Throw. Our yard had a score of trees raised from pups, some with suds gray from rinsed dust. I wrote of the suds.
When words came, I wrote now and then, for grins. Times flew in the mind’s eye. When they wrote, the hands shook, and moved on.
Take just breath. Leave just words.
Dust to dust.