I fear I am a poet, tradition bound
to mostly ignore systems – documents -
though I’ll use paper to scribble around
to hold onto some meanings, and moments.
I do use paper, I will freely admit
and I don’t abhor the screen, I’m using one -
but some nerve rebels if I’m asked to show it.
I won’t comply. That too is tradition.
You see, paper’s fragile. Identity
is carried somewhere else, in the stories
of foremothers travelling from one city
to the next, braiding streams, estuaries.
Through many rivers, borders, crisscrossed lands;
tradition too, the tangling of those strands.