My words could palm the moment and walk-
away. But they don’t. They sit
patient on the scrap, soaking
deeper in. Embedding. Surveying
the lay of the land. They peek
coquettishly over the edge, wink
& glimmer momentarily, try
to catch you unaware.
A mountain in the landscape, waits
for your flag. And that flag yearns
for your coat of arms. And your arms
yearn for the stretch & strain of weary
climb. And all of this
my words would have you
know.
My words would like nothing
more than you,
kind stranger, to bend
and scoop them up. To peruse
& take to your breast &
to your heart. To scratch them
out & improve upon them. In
the ways that you know, the secret-
you-ways.
When you reach finished
with them, they ask nothing more.
Crumple the page & misremember
or disregard. You owe them
nothing. We have hardly
met. Our secret hands brushed
briefly. Your mountains are your own
to find.
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