When words are placed on a page like this
I am called to stop,
and gather myself,
to shape the words that come.
My first word was a scream I’m told,
and I won’t be told what my last word will be.
In between is the long is,
a life that is but a string of words,
a season’s leaves on a branch of our language.
Words that are scattered like this,
are kicked by the poet’s feet.
This is is an autumn walk
back through a moment’s words.
Words are once, and never again,
but so are we.
I envy the rocks, they speak not,
but are never called away.