Words come and go.
Wandering from my mouth into thin, blue air, like a curlicue of smoke rising from a smoldering cigarette, they dissipate.
I knit them in my brain,
giving them significance as I utter them into the world,
hoping their birth means something.
But they are just many, so many of trillions, that no matter how I string them together,
they lose their strength and my pearls of wisdom break,
clattering pieces across the floor.
I gather them up, feeling if perhaps someone had read them, they might be of value.
And I begin again, searching for the true meaning, the written path that will illuminate
my way.
I gather words on a spring day, I gather words in my bag.
I straddle the horse and gallop off to the unknown, sure that who I find will be happy
upon my arrival;
He has been waiting for my words. He grins, slapping his knee at my stories.
I tell more until I have him rolling across the floor.
My words have found a home, a place to warm and delight,
in the belly of the man.
Words come and go, but these stay.
Victoria Yeary 