The Yearning of Words
Sometimes words are ammunition,
shooting salt into an illusion
causing the agony of truth
Sometimes words are the salve
turning old patina’s into
the treasure of antiques.
When a moment is lost
words whistle and we listen to
far off memories casting call,
coloring purple tangled feelings,
tearing the dry eyes of the stony
senior partner of the non-demonstrative.
Words cry and whisper and tantalize
and explode in the rapture of lovers.
Words are a lonely litany
or a symphony,
then eyelashes soft against a cheek
lull the softly dreaming child.
Words are our mantra
without them the poet
In the dew of little things,
the heart finds its morning
and is refreshed.
[This message has been edited by Martie (edited 12-20-1999).]