Words

Words

rise from my heart 

drift from my head 

I catch them in my hands 

and spread them out 

across the waiting page 

Sometimes 

they fall like spring rain 

warm and gentle 

a welcomed drink 

to soil hardened 

by winter 

and in the softened earth 

I glimpse the promise of seed 

Other times 

they come in a torrent 

tearing through me 

washing away the remnants 

of old seasons 

leaving me soaked 

and shivering 

stones uncovered 

weight I cannot carry alone 

There are days 

they fall like autumn leaves 

littering the landscape 

gathered in piles 

or scattered by wind 

the remnants 

of ideology and opinion 

some brittle, some fertile 

waiting to be sifted 

And then 

they drift like snowflakes 

wandering here and there 

until they cover everything 

creating both beauty 

and hazard 

a blanket hiding 

all that lies beneath 

And when the storm subsides  

I find the ground littered with fragments  

Some seeds, some stones  

bound in the hush of the fall 

Each waiting to be carried forward  

by hands not my own 

into seasons I will not see 

Words 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

December 3, 2025