Words slip through the boundaries
of light. Between fences
and past sleeping cats.
Words are the strength of action, the
curator of museum imaginations.
Words are fathoms, the levels of
thought, the passage between mountains,
the stillness of lakes.
Words are the home we comfort in,
the language of warm blankets that
cover the soul.
Words are the dawn of day, the weather
we walk through, the night we cry into.
Words fill the ears with wisdom, count
passing cars and shape the sound of hello.
Words follow us with the dreams they
possess, releasing parts yet to appear.
Roger Singer 