With eucalyptus, tar and salt

deeply inhaling steam, vapor, wood and oils
the cold leaves the room.

As I walk back into capricious forests
my renewed lungs fills with ubiquitous pine.

If film is sculpting time,

then poetry perpetually unravels moments.

If painting is illusioned distance,

then poetry is book-ending infinity.

If sculpture is holding space,

then poetry releases all gravity.

Snaaks genoeg die koue lug

herinner my aan my warm Afrika huis.

Ma roer die Matabela pap,

ek dik kombers aan Shosho se rug,

Pa kruip leesend weg in sy studeerkamer.

My hart verlang na berge,

droë bosveld en bos geluide.

Rooi grond en geel gras.

Die stof van jou harde aarde nou

net `n klein wolkie in my long.

The Finnish landscape in Winter

with ploughed acres, piled silage is like

walking through a Kiefer painting.

Silt, mud, and stick clung to feet

from barren fields with hay comb-overs.