you say i am not a poet.
it is true.

i do not stitch sonnets with a factory needle.
i do not can rhymes in sterile jars.

my practice is high couture.
each verse is a bespoke skin fitted to the moment's breath.
i cook without recipe, a pinch of thunder, a simmer of stone,
the raw heat of a question over an open fire.

i build shelters without plastics,
woven from fallen branches of thought,
thatched with the silence between stars,
mortared with river clay.

you ask for my credentials?
do not look for my name in a dusty index.
follow me.

i will show you where the moss writes its slow, green verses on the north face of a stone.
i will show you the lake, polishing its perfect, dark mirror all night long.
i will show you the waterfall, which has never once repeated its speech.

there.
that is my technique.
to listen.
to be the wet rock that receives the river's constant, changing story.
and to give back nothing but a true, cold, and fleeting reflection.

that is all.
and that is everything.