IV. Between

IV. Between

Sometimes the work begins

with randomness.

A torn sentence.

A word found under a shoe.

Radio static crossing through rain.

At first

it feels useless.

Then the mind leans toward it

like a plant toward a window.

Connections appear.

A line calls another line.

An image drags up memory

from the bottom of a lake.

You bring intention.

The world brings resistance.

Between the two

a third thing forms.

Not planned.

Not accidental either.

Like two rivers meeting

and changing color at the seam.

Meaning lives there:

not inside the object alone,

not sealed within the self,

but in the current

passing between them.

This is why one photograph

can wound one person

and leave another untouched.

Why grief changes shape

years after the funeral.

Why a room full of strangers

singing the same chorus

can briefly become

a single animal breathing.