When I was a young girl,
Maybe five or six,
With thick, chestnut brown hair curled
This way and that,
I collected words:
Beautiful words, long words, strange words, pious words --
Words
I journeyed through seas, foreign lands, and valleys to find them
I probed jungles of tangled letters and
Oceans of fragile paper
I climbed the creased valleys of books
And when I found the right word,
I captured it like a caterpillar
And held it close to my heart,
Placing the word inside a glass jar
Where everyday I could contemplate its beauty and constancy
Not ready to release them,
Afraid to let them go,
I quietly watched them sprout paper wings
And flutter about within my jar
And when the time ripened upon its branches,
I set them free on paper
I can still hear the echoing flutter of their wings...
Apr 25, 2019
Apr 25, 2019 at 3:35 PM UTC
When I was a young girl,
Maybe five or six,
With thick, chestnut brown hair curled
This way and that,
I collected words:
Beautiful words, long words, strange words, pious words --
Words
I journeyed through seas, foreign lands, and valleys to find them
I probed jungles of tangled letters and
Oceans of fragile paper
I climbed the creased valleys of books
And when I found the right word,
I captured it like a caterpillar
And held it close to my heart,
Placing the word inside a glass jar
Where everyday I could contemplate its beauty and constancy
Not ready to release them,
Afraid to let them go,
I quietly watched them sprout paper wings
And flutter about within my jar
And when the time ripened upon its branches,
I set them free on paper
I can still hear the echoing flutter of their wings...