T H I S is not a thought,
not a memory,
not a picture,
not a feeling.
These are words,
Made of shapes.
Curved lines that twist
On a page,
On a canvas
On a screen,
Through the air.
That represent a sound,
That when strung together represent a word
That when strung together represent….
Something eternally fleeting,
A flashing moment of experience
These lines won’t show you my midnight sky
With it’s cloud shrouded moon
And scattered crystal stars.
You won’t know my rising dawn,
Hiding the world in overwhelming light.
Can you smell my apple blossoms in the Spring
or feel my sharp autumn breeze tossing leaves,
Or hear the crickets and frogs from my front porch?
I wish you could.
I want to share.
I want to connect.
I ache to show someone,
I want to touch
This is the world through a glass, darkly.
Someday the glass will be removed and I’ll know and be known.
That will be a good day.
Until then, I have these words.