there are too many words,
maybe
i don’t have enough of them
at the ready.
the beginning always takes
such effort -
stringing along the words,
stitching them together
in long skeins across time
and
remember me when i am in
my dotage
and i no longer have so
many words.
the end always comes
swiftly, lumbers
among the words, shakes them
like flowers, pulls some up
and discards them
in piles, sets others aside
for pressing.
if you leave the roots
they often grow again.
insistent,
releasing their fragrance,
other gardens calling you to
tend them.
simply perform the task of
attending,
setting things in order,
arranging
words until everything is
full.
and stands still.
or goes to seed. or dies.
