Sifting through the words that tumble out of my gut, tumbling down the slope, spilling and scattering over pages as rocks disturbed by one step; a footfall on an unexplored ridge of dry, rocky earth.
There they lay. The words.
Some land all together. Cohesive. Part of the story that is my mother.
Others travel farther, rolling, rolling, away from the collection. Where do I put these stones, these words that escaped the rest?
Perhaps they’re part of the larger story, perhaps they’re not.
For now. They are poems.
Unearthed by my footsteps.
Spilled from my gut.
In the Margins 
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