A Word is Not a Home
A word is not a home
but we set our tables
between its walls,
cook meals, annoy
friends, abuse ourselves.
Sometimes I misplace
one, and can’t find
my house, much less
the window’s desk
or the chair behind it.
But if I wait, something
always takes form in the fog,
an arm, a ribcage, a feathered
hope struggling to emerge.
Inept, I take comfort
in these apparitions,
accept their offerings,
lose myself in mystery,
find shelter there
in the hollowed curves.
O at the Edges 
COMPLETELY identify with this! Just came from birdblind watching a very familiar birs – name eluding! – in desperation I inquired – husband seemed tolerant of my slip – titmouse went on hopping about not even caring if he had a name to remember!
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Ha! I’ve had the same experience! Arthur Sze asks, in a poem, if we know a bird’s name in ten languages do we know any more about the bird? A couple of days ago Stephanie say three species of woodpeckers at one feeder, all within a few moments of the others.
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Oh, this describes cognitive dysfunction to perfection, including the part about anxiety only making it worse. My home, when it appears, sometimes looks like Laputa, which is beats my little one-level ranch to hell anyway. ^_^
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Does it snow in Laputa? I’m seeing scattered flakes here, which this Texas boy still finds fascinating. 🙂
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Love this.
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