Your
words shouldn’t drip out
from your fingertips
like watershed
on a windshield
to be easily wiped away.
They shouldn’t be thrown
down in a fury,
forming a crater
where the foundation
used to lay.
Or tossed like a stone
into a pond,
skipping on the surface
only to be lost in the depths
of oblivion.
Don’t treat your words
like school children,
scolding them
as they walk through the front door,
forcing them to stand
in a corner
until they behave.
Rather, hold each word
in the palm of your hand.
Feel its warmth
as it molds to your skin.
Notice how its color
changes in the light.
Get your fingers dirty!
Your words are not feathers,
floating, fleeting,
difficult to grasp,
or anvils,
dark, black, portentous,
too heavy to pick up
in the first place.
Your words are malleable,
elastic, flexible, lissome,
transparent, translucent,
opaque.
You are the sculptor
of meaning.
Take your time
before you let it dry.