My mother says, words, like all things, come from God
My father, just as religious, is certain it comes from study,
Kneeling at the altar of reading.
Words come from books, my son says. Although after thinking
He concludes they come from cave dwellers.
Maybe he has a point.
The grunting of my 3-year-old, who knows words but prefers grunts and growls to communicate, seems to say:
What’s the point about worrying with words at all when we just use our words to talk about the mundane, we silently
tiptoe around the inconceivable fact that is existence?
Somewhere down the line, life has a way of stripping that child-like wonder from us.
And it takes work. It takes poetry to try and move to spaces
where lines blur,
where we can still wonder at the glory of the sun and sunrises.
And a torrent of words appearing seemingly out of nowhere.