Reaching, unthinking, I run my hand
Against the grain
Catching fragments, taking passengers
Sharp delvers, of the greater whole
Though not of my aiming
Still finding their mark
In me
A map, or suggestion
Needle-sharp in flesh
That should not yield
Yet sometimes welcomes
And melds
Scrap and remnant
Sliver and crumb
Blood and sap
Bone and seed
So that gradually, so slowly
And slight
As if barely noticing
A solitary stem may rise from the throat
Then branching, reaching, unthinking
Raise blooms to the sun
And roots to the soil
Below.

--

Written, recorded and produced by Oliver Barrett, 2018-2024