words are hanging from everywhere, buried behind a blanket of milk and salt, an ocean of fog so dense you can almost taste it in every new gulp of air. we can barely see them, we can hardly grab them. words that are signposts. others that are masks, others veils, and others yet are lanterns. some are sea and sand, and some are sky.
they dangle from the eaves and the windows and doors, from the wooden beams of ceilings and roofs, from the sills of carved stone, from porches and chimneys, from the roses and the geraniums, from the wisteria and the camellia trees, the fruit trees, the pines atop the hill, on the piled stone of the water spring, from the arches of the old stone bridge. they are like women of the life, festooned in deception and half nudity, and in the screaming powders of colour: they are in every corner. they linger and laugh out loud. they shall go with anyone, and belong to no one.
they are in each and every place, words are, as if they were of art and merely breeze. as if they were sudden breath, ephemeral pause of the eye. ubiquitous, they trickle from things and sway in the air, so near from the thought, so far from the hand. and we, unable to reach them, we fret.
we need any one wind to whirl them into flowers and dance. and bring us a butterfly gatherer’s net.
© Nina Light