This tall pile I push around
each day is riddled with
strange and curious holes
that allow life to flow in
and out of me.

I use them every day
with hardly a question.
They report back to me
on outside conditions:

meadowlarks, darkening clouds,
pink salmon sizzling in
kitchen hot water.
I write that stuff down.

Through the holes
and into my pondering
words, these holes
turning flesh to word.