Not rock, rather - pebbled husk of dying river.
Not fog - in its place, a condensing velvet hush.
Not joy - shadow swoops a golden acre.

"Show, don't tell."
The gift of image
Resonates, is life, persists.

Old shell, tumbled through time.
Worn to sand, settles
And becomes a mountain.

Not shell, well...shucked cob, discarded peel.
Not tumbled, try whittled to a wise core.
Not settles - moans his last.

Word falls, mountain rises.

This poem is written in memory of my mentor, Lucien Stryk (1924-2013)