I’ve been wanting to write.
Words swirl around in my brain,
but I have no funnel to let them out.
Once, I wrote that my autobiography
would be written in stanzas —
my last act a poem to the world.
This is not that poem.
The words blink in and out
like fireflies, slowly
shedding light that quickly
extinguishes.
This poem feels like a letter,
a note to you
and perhaps even you.
But I don’t have the words right;
I can’t figure out the order,
as if I’m a type-setter
and this is my printing press
and the letters won’t click in correctly.
I want to tell you about the roots,
the silly truths and lies,
the movement of water across the planet.
I want to explain what is hard to say,
and yet, I’m fumbling.
Perhaps the words don’t matter,
I mean, have they ever?
Maybe the oaks and peas
know about us.
Maybe all that I want to say
has already been said.
So It Goes 