Words only are our weighty matters of the day; <br />we carry them about, small piles of stones <br />boulder-crushed and river-smoothed, <br />filled with our intention, <br />to build a better bridge <br />a mightier footpath to the steep, <br />never-quarryed heart of man. <br /> <br />In devout mumblings, <br />we ply the rosary-trade of consonant longings; <br />enchantments we would cast <br />within the brook and sky; <br />tricklings of a rare spirit, <br />we would catch in our hands <br /> <br />Always losing more <br />than we can hold to, <br />searching for the stray glint of golden matters <br />which could buy us more unwinding days in the sun, <br />to scratch through the leavings <br />of mythical streams. <br /> <br />Our bookish souls praying <br />for an avalanche, an earthquake; <br />to unloose the nuggets that we would display, <br />as like a small child, <br />we constantly rearrange our cache <br />looking for an alignment; <br />a magic spell, that can conquer all.<br /><br />Patti Masterman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/words-only-are-our-weighty-matters/
