Words. Our human artifacts. Letters linking an image insist on grasping for that which is leaving. Or already gone. If I write about fireflies mingling after the storm, my glass-jar mind holds them for a moment's joy until they can't breathe. Freedom means I will let them go. You know that is what is happening here, don't you?
weeds and chicory wait on the fringes of wind peace be with us
Words. The ones about a one-day future are most treacherous when they impregnate the mind with that which cannot be known. Hope is born into the armless midwife of now. So it is that we should bury and mourn the manuscript, the pages of poetry, and the letters to pen-pals in the thin places, too far removed to keep for ourselves.
Words. Muddled again. Do you think I'm hiding behind fonts, peering between spaces and calling it art? In the end, (which is anytime, really) I believe that the landscape of language will be plowed under in favor of the silence growing without caution next to the tracks.
Deliverance. Un-worded. All along.