The Colour of Words IX
Wosene Worke Kosrof, 2002
Words are the gift.
I treasure mine; steal yours; play both reckless spendthrift and miser; throwing them about me like confetti; stuffing them under the mattress and holding them close.
Words are the gift.
And so I string them like bunting, or minnows on a line; stir, sauté, roast and toast them; shuck them like oysters; forget them; spill them; squander them and mispronounce them.
Words are the gift.
On the pages of my journal I roll them like marbles; plant them; scatter them like breadcrumbs when I wander far from home; butter them; steep them in Barbados rum; fill my pockets with them; eat them for breakfast, lunch and dinner; watch them fly south in the autumn; warm my mid-winter hands by them; play them fast and loose and for keeps.
Words are the gift and now - because I must - I spark them; toke them; knock them back with a lick of salt and a squeeze of lime; pinch them; sniff them; ride them hard; lock them up; set them free; stroke them; shake them; beat them; hoard them like dragon's gold; swallow them like pomegranate seeds; pass them on from me, to you, with love and squalor, word junkie that I am.
1 comments:
Accepting this gift, with gratitude.
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