THE WORDSMITH I sit alone. Yet myriad voices speak their tales to me And clamour for my pen to ink the permanence of their words. For if not they will fly like silken threads Of spider’s webs in Autumn breezes. Touching my lips as they pass on quivers of air, Uncaptured, fleeing, gone once more. Some I seize. Their strands unwhirl in merry dance To take their places on my page. Mere smudges of shapes adorning paper How they conspire To light fires in the hearts Of those that pass their way. Such little things that hold such resonance, In frames that hide powers beyond understanding. I sit here. Harnessing my flock Their wild flight to find sanctuary In another’s heart And there bring the soft down of Peace From their feather’s rest.
