It’s true. Sometimes I tire of the poets and I want plain words. Unhurried, slow words with lazy syllables. Maybe even stilted words that fall like heavy bricks and land with a singular purpose. But even then, we’re building. I just fed you a simile, even if filled with clay and dust. Words are busy little things, so much more than the feel in your mouth as you roll the letters down your tongue or march them through your teeth. They are meaning and vision, color and sound, texture and taste. Like orange.
I’ve heard there are no English words that rhyme with orange.
Maybe there are poets who write the simple things of bread and earth and sky but in the folds of those words there are multitudes lapping at the ripples, like the slick sideways swish of a Hariwake Koi’s belly, its silky apricot scales hinting at something brilliant beneath the surface.
There is no escape from Wonder…
