Words are like pebbles. I weigh them in my hands
touching their surface; some egg smooth; some
rough; home spun. I must know them like old shoes
Remember the power of their first shy
kiss; full on the lips; how my heart fluttered
as I cast them out across the still lake of
paper. They fall where they will; a fresco
of sounds squeezed from my pen, scratched out and cast
out again, sending forth ripples as I
place them on the page. Some glow, like runes in
moonlight as they touch another; others
fade; sink to buff shade; a handful of dust
disappointment on the lips. Words are like
pebbles; they go where the river takes them