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.
