[a poem on poetry and on writing; dedicated to af]*

Sometimes,
a noisy silence,
like hunger,
fulfills me.

Those times,
I seat in a porch,
in the bluish mist of dawn
or in the rust of falling skies,

and I wander,
looking at thousands of words
floating in my porch,
dancing in a slight breeze,
like a thousand glassy hummingbirds.

Charmed,
I pick one
and another
and suddenly
in a swirl
an all flock
gathers
and its brilliance
draws what
I do not know.

Strange realms
rise
as the swirl of wings
fades away.
I enter these new worlds
and
I see.