I used to know all the words
But now they’re all a jumble. They ran
Away so long ago, vanishing into paragraphs
And pages too sprawling and small to track or read.
Then it seemed the hieroglyphics exploded,
Leaving no syllables, no compound sounds—no meaning—
Just consonants and vowels, an alphabet where as pieces
From different puzzles no two could be
Tied, jointed, paired. In the end all one could do
Is make piles of them, a pre-adamic sorting
Based on size, color, character, awaiting the day
When language returns, the day God walks with us again
Through the garden, blessing an inflorescence of speech
And a fruitfulness of poetry by which we no longer stammer,
Gape, hungry for the well-spoken breath, but are sated,
Glutted with penetrating, uttered love,
A healing that soothes the soul’s desperation. Such
Longed-for and long-awaited messages are never
Negative but imbibed with peaceful potency that could last
A thousand years’ drought.
I am still in the desert.
I have been here a thousand years.
I have labored; piles stand.
I will wait another millennium for just one more word to come.
That word will be my last.