Our Work

Objects get lost
Thoughts vanish unfathomed
Feelings are so often disguised.

Chiselling off the surface…

In the grip of tools
our hope, like rock, is dust –
Almost soft.

Pound dried to packed dust
packed form to particle.

If this dust is not buried, lost in our fears
or tossed to the wind.
If the dust is rich with our will,
Our meal it shall be.