Inventing Language

To peer into an child’s eyes
is to gaze into deep fathoms
revealing a vast everything that was,
flooded by wellspring’s primordia rebirth.

Wading ashore,
waits the language of one’s making,

that space beyond the high and low tide
of a fog-engulfed landing.

Bonded by the unknown,
its sound is mercurial
its genesis imagined.

To touch the invitation
is to be seared and frozen,
its scented essence
that of history’s musty pages
reaching future’s vacant yearning.

Finally
its taste blends
a thesaurial palate with colors unknown,
arpeggios outside the key of anything,
flowered fragrance yet to bloom,
Time’s serene touch of once shadowed space.

Such is the idiom of one’s creation,
one’s vision,
one’s personal Berlitz of the mind
needing to invent language.