Words

Stepping stones and the echo
of feet across the stream
are my words - without
rhyme but all vowels
speak each to each, bounce
back from the rock
to their fellows, like a foot-
slap on stone carried
over the water, bourne
on the winds that pass us all
on our roads, whisper
through our fall like
words between reeds, like
a pond rippling
surrounded by weeds.

All we can do is go -
even if we sit still -
the hammer and the anvil
of the forge strike
anyway
whether we will or no.

previous poem

next poem