Language Drifting…
To peer into an infant’s eyes
Is to peer into deep fathoms
Revealing a vast everything that was
Flooded by wellspring’s primordia reborn
Wading ashore
That place beyond the ebb and tide
Of a fog-shrouded shore
Waits the language of one’s making
Bonded by the unknown
Its sound is mercurial
Its images know little of their genesis
To touch the invitation
Is to be seared and frozen
Its aromatic essence
That of history’s musty pages
Reaching future’s vacuous yearning
Finally
Its taste blends
A thesaural palate with
Colors nameless
Arpeggios outside the key of anything
Flowered fragrances yet to bloom
Time’s serene touch of shadowed space
Such is the idiom of one’s creation
One’s imagination
The Berlitz of the mind
Language drifting atop and below
Even for those who cannot read
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My freshman year in college, my English teacher told us that we had to wait until we receive a doctorate to change the language. I finally got there and began doing it. Only to find that my writers group, a bunch of old English teachers and lawyers, keep trying to change it back, alas.
Ron
"Arpeggios outside the key of anything
Flowered fragrances yet to bloom
Time’s serene touch of shadowed space"
Simply beautiful.