Written with a pitchfork on running water

Imagine plunging the longest tine of a pitchfork into a rapidly flowing stream. Now twirl it about. Write your name, your lover’s name, your children’s names. Create fantastical images. Scrawl your best effort at a poem.  
 As you do this, observe the water. Perhaps it is slightly stirred by your efforts, but in a moment it recovers, recreates its chosen patterns, and rolls merrily, inexorably on. To an inland sea, a gulf, an ocean? Some vast water somewhere. Then it releases all of itself upward to our skies for a while.

All the words I ever have written, on paper or on screen (and and all the words I have spoken, as well) will someday evanesce, irretrievable, within the eddies of time.

So why blog? Why write stories and poetry? For that matter, why ever speak about anything at all, except my love for a few other people—that, of course, and my quotidian duties, needs, and desires?
For my own pleasure and reassurance, I guess. And the validation of others who may experience similar thoughts and feelings.

(I often doubt if ever I’ve had an original thought in my head. The pitchfork on running water was an image my great-grandmother, Mary Lencik, often summoned for us while muttering those words under her breath.)