Words as Water

Some days, my words are a hurricane, storming, swirling, surrounding, swallowing, whirlwind of watery madness, Poseidon's envy, confluence of pressure and heat compressed, twisted, gyrating, incubated under cold gaze of wristwatches and sunsets, calendars and generations, until they unleash at last as force of nature, primal tempest, liquid chaos. They hammer hulls, homesteads, hospitalities -- but they are not insolent; they are imbued with imagination, ingenuity, insight, pulled by passion, purpose, providence. They are supernovae birthing stars, and when they hush, you can see their children.

Some days, my words are a waterfall, churning, frothing, roiling, cascading over with frenetic energy, Angel's envy, bottom of a gravity well, bane of promontories, parapets, precipices -- yet still secluded, sequestered, subservient, dutifully, datelessly, deathlessly locked down the same cold cliffs tectonic caprice created, indentured to their own inertia -- and so I have condensed my sorrows into scabrous stone slabs and scattered them along the basin, that they may finally be eroded, and I have whittled my wishes into water wheels, that they may finally be harnessed.

Some days, my words are a tide, waxing, waning, swishing, sloshing, synchronous with celestial song, oscillating in lunar rhythm, Artemis's envy, lover's paradise, coastline kissing horizon, border of an infinite sea. They polish seashells, harbor secrets, deposit starfish, softly send sculpted strongholds back to soft, sweet sand. They are hidden under cover of darkness, shroud of night, cloak of shadow, never witnessed -- only glimpsed in furtive flashes, coy confessions, wistful whispers, receding at a moment's notice back to the vast and incomprehensible deep.

Some days, my words are a brook, bouncing, bubbling, babbling, careening with candid carelessness, Siddhartha's envy, meandering across forest and field, veld and valley, sierra and steppe, passing pastures, poppies, pathways, an ardent, adventurous aria with catchy, contented chorus, borne aloft by birdsong and breeze, sustenance of sunflowers, cradle of childhood, provider of peace. They are leyline, lifeblood, luminosity, erstwhile ending in echoey estuaries, now dissolving into diverse deltas, frolicking fluid phalanges filled with festive fantasies.

Some days, my words are a pond. They are still, stoic, silent. They will not stray from their solemn station, but they are not stagnant; they stay sparkling, simple, spotless, marker of mindful moments, motionless mirrors reflecting minimalist murmurings of my modest mind. They have no agenda; they are plain presentness, abbreviated to the point of pure apostrophe, emptiness in form, form in emptiness. I exhale and watch ripples roll across their surface.

Some days, my words are the bottom of a broken well. They are distant. Dark. Cold.
Unreachable.
I listen for them with urgency, with desperation, seek them out in lonely, forbidden places.
I hear only a mournful, howling wind that chills me to my bones.
Where is the hurricane? The waterfall? The tide? The brook? The pond?
They seem so distant now.
I will wait for their return.