A few minutes every day,
at times, stretching into hours,
I write to you
in this book,
writing words
whispering mysteries
of the winds in the mountains.
At times, my words still,
shifting, settling then sighing
as moonstone white clouds rest,
caressing the tops of mountains.
I have burned hundreds
of ink filled books
over these many years
when disgusted with
the imperfection
of my scribbled pages.
The heat of their fires
never offered much warmth.
Now, I save my scribble filled books
though you may never see them.
Forty-five years,
I have written words to you,
yet you never knew,
and neither did I
until this moment.
I envy the monarch’s, the hummingbird’s arc of return, infinite, eternal. My jealousy consumes as I have no return, no cycle— Only the damnation of this linear thing, finite, directionless.
I had an argument with all my words today.
For they would not stay
in their delightfully organized spots.
Seems, if you will,
they wanted to jump around and play,
ignoring the sense of my color coded dots.
I must admit I lost my patience, yelling,
“We will never accomplish
anything useful if you play
In this most rambunctious way.”
To this, they in unison whined,
“Why must we be serious all the damn time?”
And to that, I could not provide argument.
Thus, we decided to play
And took a vacation today.
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Hearing The Mermaids Sing 