The prettiest words are the greedy ones. They alight. Then they pollinate.
Because you have things to do.
Upright and important
You squirrel them away - somewhere.
Until they are a damned nuisance.
Then give it all a smidge of time.
Stingy and cheap but better than nothing.
It’s not enough. It’s never enough.
When you’re about to burst you give them some room.
So what if it’s the rocky soil? The tamped down, head between hands.
The between of, not the desk, or even a nook.
The words, they comprehend.
For them it doesn’t matter.
They see no craggy impediment.
Any accommodation will do.
You are wildflowers.
A furnace, a factory.
The early 20th century.
A virile stag. Aloft.
You are trite but you don’t care.
From the archives:
Plainfolk
Suffer The Words
To mend
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