WORDS

The words that once were free at ease

recline beneath a willow tree

wishing so to climb, climb, climb,

to escape the evil on the ground. 

That evil is a devil thing that stabs

and stabs, stabs, stabs again,

till nought but “mush” remains to speak

of love and peace and harmony. 

And that “mush” sends up an ardent plea

to grow, grow, grow and grow some more,

to knock at last on heaven’s door

and ask, and ask, why, why, why, why. 

For now mere silence filters down

and words listen, listen more,

but nothing penetrates the shell

that survival put in place. 

But they know, of course, they know

because heaven speaks out loud

when the channel free of dirt and grime

picked up from that filthy ground. 

But how to make the channel free

for more than minutes in a day

and words ponder, ponder, ponder more,

until claimed by exhaustive sleep. 

You’ll see them there beneath the tree

but don’t disturb their reverie

because they will have to start again

from beginning till the end. 

How long it’s been, how long will be,

but I can’t tell you till I know

they’ve up and walked away

to regain their rightful place. 

And their rightful place a page of course

or three or four or more and more and more!