Sick of those who come with words but no language

                                    I made my way to the snow-covered island

                                                                                    Tomas Tranströmer

 

A language without words forms at seam of earth and sky

its first sounds are

snow melt

 

It swirls at edge of day

dark

and we do not want to enter

 

We crave our old words

Christmas cold

May’s apple blossoms

 

But heat loosens hold

between letters, each one to the other.

 

We shift in soft beds of sweat,

watch letters descend:

 

albedo

drought

moulin

tide gauge.

 

Reach for them.  Breathe

in and out, then mixed

and maybe lucky,

they’ll form

that prayer

we need

to take us

down.

 

Published in The Kerf 2015