Words only are our weighty matters of the day;
we carry them about, small piles of stones
boulder-crushed and river-smoothed,
filled with our intention, to build a better bridge
a mightier footpath to the steep,
never-quarryed heart of man.
In devout mumblings,
we ply the rosary-trade of consonant longings;
enchantments we would cast
within the brook and sky;
tricklings of a rare spirit,
we would catch in our hands
Always losing more
than we can hold to,
searching for the stray glint of golden matters
which could buy us more unwinding days in the sun,
to scratch through the leavings,
of mythical streams.
Our bookish souls praying
for an avalanche, an earthquake;
to unloose the nuggets that we would display,
as like a small child, we constantly rearrange our cache
looking for an alignment;
a magic spell, that can conquer all.