Words Are Small
Words are small, written or spoken,
their curve is lost in growing shadow,
they do not carry like they would
in the vitreous clarity of forgotten days,
but loft and founder somewhere
in their search for the one that will listen.
Birds carry the clues to our song
so high above us
where stars bend in behind the parchment of blue
turning their chorus of cold fire in response.
The uncut grass harbors shimmering silk,
these cold nights the spiders climb down
into the pasture’s tiny hearts,
spinning their stories to an audience of stone;
their weightless moorings stream like silver banners
unnoticed in the sinking season.
by Seth Grube