Form in the Formless / by Zander Ford

This paradox

We call life


Seemingly impermanent

And yet


What is the wind to itself?

Without words


What are the songs of waves

Without their shores to play with?


What are the tree tops

Swaying at dawn

Without the radiance of firelight

To buttress  their existence?


And you

Friend, Brother, Sister, Father, Mother

What are you

Without your names?