I place each word,
tunking them into place,
tapping them plumb and square.
Each a brick in its bed of mortar,
line by line raising walls
to hold my tale.
Locked and interlocked,
solid and enduring.

How might the story fare if
words fell as drops
patterning the page
with their landing.

For a time,
their boundaries fluid
creating new combinations
arcs and sprays, swirls and,
where their colors mixed,
new hues emerge,
fade into one another, before drying and
only then holding meaning as in a net.

To play among the words this way;
arms upraised,
starry eyed,
wet and wild,
puddle stomping,

But then, they,
who raised stone circles
who plotted pyramids,
who dared cathedrals,
weren’t they wizards just as well?

Writer, walker, poet, educator. Commercial fisherman, builder, donut maker, organic grower. Boston, U. City, Maine, South Africa, Madrid.

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