some days they are as the ash
spewed from a choking volcano
some days they are as the dust
from a dry country lane whipped into the air
by a speeding dilapidated pickup truck
there are days they are as the mist
from the crashing waters
of a spring thaw waterfall
other times they are as the gurgle
of a gently winding brook
easing its way through the countryside
they can be light as a feather
or hurled like a stone
they can drift like the smoke of a distant fire
which takes its time to assail your senses
they can be sharp or pointed
like a finely honed and practiced dagger
they can sometimes crack like the tip of a whip
in the hands of a practiced master
there are those
which are as a used carpenter’s hammer,
rounded, and pounded
most of the time,
they are a collection of several
they are the words that flow
they are the words
which spring from our hearts and lips
like a well of water overflowing
they are passion-driven
they are purpose-created
they are the thread
woven with the needle of the tongue
to mend tears and rips in our lives
and the lives of those around us
they can spread the mortar and build a wall.
they can just as easily
break down the walls and barricades
between the estranged brotherhoods of man
they are the tools
we beat into usefulness
they are the weapons
we forge in fires of memory
they may be used or abused
they may harm or heal
they may damn or save
they may be poisonous or medicinal
at the end of the day
when all our deeds are done
and all our words have been spoken
they are the many-colored leaves
fallen all around our lives
they are the remnants of a life lived
they are the scraps of memories
passed from one generation to the next
they are the words spoken and heard
they are simply the words
Words
© Ron Simpson Jr.
