I am a poet and I love the words,

the way they pattern music in the mind.

I love the images that they create,

the subtle trace of sound they leave behind.


I love the way that they embroider thought,

the way they weave ideas in a text,

and how they lead the reader through a maze,

predicting where the thread may guide them next.


I love the way they play in realms of feeling

and somehow seem to orchestrate the soul.

I love the way, like cells, they seem to gather,

accumulating to a greater whole.


How could we live our lives without a language?

What are we but the things we feel and think?

What are we but the mesh of all our meanings,

beyond necessities of food and drink?


I sometimes fancy words can conjure magic,

that poetry coheres to speak a spell,

that language lets us live ourselves a story

and gives us each a cogent tale to tell.


I wonder whether back before existence,

just as incipient being slowly stirred,

the earliest, subtlest trace of any matter

was but anticipation of a word.