These words

When what you have

is the absence of words

to fill the dry, expectant parchment ---

you tell me how you have tried

to fill the gaps with fixtures, pictures, a trip to some distant country,

smokes and sighs of longing  

to find the words

older than our own still elusive,

the quill poised, the ink quickly drying.

To this, let me tell you --- I dreamt of a poem

taking flight from the tips of your fingers

springing forth to bleed unto the page.

In my dream, the poem found itself awake.

And you, powerless in its awakening, 

can only stare at tall walls turned short,

narrow ends opening to wider streets offering no resistance

to the words surging, hurriedly whispering ---

We’re here. We're here.

Here. In the arms of an imaginary wind.

The words telling of movement,

promises a return.

---

Trust that these words won't fail you.