Word Knitting
Every word stands poised on gossamer threads of silence
Spinning back and forth between past and future
Waiting to be spoken afresh in resounding tones
Carried on the breaths of innumerable hidden voices
The poets weave words, spinning their silken stories
Into time's tapestry with bony wordworn fingers
The music of their moment passes inexorably into mine
As I sit here knitting with clicking keyboard needles
My tangled ball of wordwool unravels across the screen
Unseen voices glow within the illuminated imprints
Humming within the electronic undertones
Whispering secrets from the great unseen underbelly of existence
What is a word worth, when weighted with this
Great undertow of silent speaking history
What can a word carry, as a coffin encasing carnage
Of colonial conquests and cultural assimilations
A word lives and dies as soon as spoken
Leaving trails of riddled legacies in its wake
Tangled clues left to be traced by today's children
To weave from it their own knotted song
