Words Fall Short

To me, the centuries are yesterday’s wind
I’ll show you the thoughts of ages past
of people gone
of weak and strong
of all who wield a pen.

I am the language of the mind
I am the road thoughts travel down
ideas and feelings
reasoning and reaction
through me is the closest minds can come.

I can’t show you everything.

I can’t bring you the sweet spicy scent of sensitive fern in July sunshine, a smell that is summer and woods and past and light and life.

I can’t bring you the feeling that comes when you hear the wind whisper through a million pine needles in a forest of ancient evergreens.

I can’t make you understand the peculiar squish of moss between your toes, the weird fuzzy sharpness of astringent chokecherries in August.

But I am the language of the mind. A dark, silent, scentless, sensationless inner world that is alive with more than senses could give. I am the bricks and mortar of your world. I am your stories, your thoughts, your memories…

Memories. Those strange things I never quite understood.

Don’t Stare

 

Don’t stare at the sun.

That’s what I’ve been told
more than once
till I stopped looking.

Don’t stare at the sun.

That’s what the manual said
but I didn’t read it
till later.

Look at that thing
ball of fire
lighting the earth.

A furtive glance
just to remember
you can’t
see that bright.

Nobody can.

Not even my Canon.

Still I try.