This other language I speak
-none understand
outside my elfin ears.
As if I mumble incessantly, compulsively,
as if I am fumbling my thoughts with stone words.
As if I were
seeking to release crystal clear meaning
from in-side the hollow geode.
If it looks like a rock…
Those wild words were all dear to me,
took muster to say in such a way as to blur the
sharp edges, land softly, sometimes it settled
in, others not.
The consonants were the hardest parts,
the little lilt only the muttering of a passing bird,
waving its wings overheads.
Emulating butterfly kisses, lips
blown away
with all my meaning-
missed-dismissed.
As though the goal was only to tell you
something-
to commune-
icate, instigate, dictate-show and tell
about, something I have lying around.
Yet, I make no sound
like feathers.
Since I can no longer speak
in pure poetry.
Artwork By Hills, Laura Coombs, 1859-1952 (artist); L. Prang & Co. (publisher) (Flickr: Flower Fairy) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
