chirps and chips frantic hops darting left then right swooping up and over to the sudden eager chorus of baby beaks stretched wide in demanding supplication nestled, bent-kneed among a fern pew in the holy chapel of nature’s spirit.
I hoard them. Stacked high, Pushed deep, Tilted And adjusted As puzzle pieces In a bookcase. Overflowing, Till they cascade, A waterfall of words, To pool at my feet In a comfort Of warm paper And hard covers, That smell of Knowledge Power Imagination And connection. Their allure, Their devastation, Flows against my soul In gentle undulations And violent tsunamis To move me both minutely And throw me upon rocky shores. Always Always Do they…
There is a beauty Of words That evades me. Leaves me longing, Grasping ineffectually For The Right One. I feel their potential, Scrabbling In the back Of my mind. Yet the harder I reach The further they recede. I know They are bright stars In a night of gloom, But they refuse To share Their light With me.
