About Writing

She told the group, “Lorraine, she lives in her head.”
She said it like it was not the ideal.
I sat there wondering why that was a bother.
“What if I do?” I thought, that is where the words are-- exquisite words-- swimming around in alphabet rivers,
rolling down aerie slopes tumbling one after the other
cavorting like puppies at play.
Some float like satellites navigating among stars,
others burst forth through darkness like sparkling fountains of showering light.
Words nudge and brush against each other joining and separating,
dashing about like children playing hide 'n seek.
Some sail over oceans like white triangles streaked in sunbeams.
I roll my tongue around their sounds,
just to listen to them,
to hear how they make me feel--
ripe and juicy some,
others cool as chiming bells in icy air,
some smooth and fragile as robins’ eggs,
others plush as cashmere,
There are magical words too, slick as sleight-of-hand,
and others woeful as a choir of mourning doves.
Some cut air like razor blades.
Some soak deep like a rain drenched-night.
They have power these words
to raise the soul
to quicken the heart
to well the eyes with tears.
So what if I live in my head. The words are there,
superb words in powerful rivers of alphabets
just waiting for me.