Even Though I’m Partial to Words

Even Though I’m Partial to Words

Out the window, through snow, I see the irrigation ditch lined

with gray cottonwood trees we have not carved our names in.

As if the writing of things makes them more real.

As if through etching and whittling bark, a love might

gain more permanence, or grow, perhaps, as cottonwoods do,

rapid and full of vigor. Last year, one of the largest lost half its wood,

split deep down the core and crashed to our roof.  The remaining

half, a gaping carcass, still pushes out leaves, but stands deformed.

Let us write our names in water, then, for the simple pleasure

writing brings. Let us write it in star patterns, snowdrifts, mud.

Let us tap out our names in the morse code of blood that thrums

through tender wrists, through open hands that reach

for the other’s grasp. And let’s lose our names and see

what else might catch. Something permanent. Like love, perhaps.


One thought on “Even Though I’m Partial to Words

  1. Now you’re starting to sound like Rumi, how he disliked the very words he sang and spoke because they seemed so much less than love. I think that’s it anyway. Sometimes if feels like we could fly or swim in silence beyond the words.


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