Words escape me

through the latest
perforation, this Swiss
cheese, this colander,

the hole punch of
each passing day, the
mute minutes in which

my ability to name
and thus constrain
becomes ever more

soluble. How readily
they slip from my
loosened grasp,

scatter and gambol
through meadows
outside my purview,

freed from the
meaning I made
them carry all

the voluble years.  Now
they are simply sounds,
like music, and the

space they vacate
a capacious possibility,
an appreciation

for the wordless songs
I am learning
to sing.






  1. Seems to me the colander is not as perforated as one might think! 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I can sometimes still fake it fairly well. 🙂 Thanks, Russ.

      Liked by 1 person

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