For weeks the Words were everywhere.
Creating their own syllabic rhythm and take.
Landscape to letters. Look up. Write down.
Suffering of the would-be-mindfully-aware.
Static of muse on the still morning air.
Cackle of grackles and barking of dogs.
Stillness is not a word. Emptiness either.
Look and listen. Cormorant glide?
Frost in the shadow of a curled brown leaf?
Now they are gone. Just when I was beginning
to understand. Words are nowhere to be found.
Understanding IS wordless, but these tools can take us part of the way.. T.S.Eliot said “Genuine poetry can communicate before it is understood.” ― your words are doing that. Beautiful!
I’m a huge fan of your writing Michele, so this means a lot to me. Thanks very much.
Chris
This is beautiful – I was in such a similar place a few days back (around the time you wrote it…). It can be quite lonely…
Thank you! It’s a interesting balance between the joys of silence and expression.