WORDS, they come a-sneaking, a-stomping, creeping in with sissing sounds or bold, brass, bongo drum-drumming, bang-banging.
They float and refuse to land – flittering like butterflies, afraid to land.
Basking, bare in big displays. Gasp and stare at: Full Frontals – on parade! So ripe & crude, to cause a blush.
And disobeying, mixing tenses up, so they are here but have never had been once before, to there.
Oh words! I love you for your subtleness and your silliness.
Promise me, at least: you’ll Never leave me with that despair:
of an empty head, a poised pen and a blank page.
by Elizabeth Haley-Wood