A Brief Metaphor

Written words have never come on my command. Sometimes though, they slip from my lips to a page leaving a taste sweeter than anything else. I wish it was easier, the spoken word drops from my lips too fast to catch by most. But coherence comes rare for poetry, rarer for fiction. Descriptions leave me with warmth, but dialogue and characters escape from my mind longe before I can ever write them down.

As for essays, my words slough onto the pages. They ramble and tumble to the speed of my thoughts, tangling into thorn bushes on dry earth. Days later I come back to my garden. I unsnarl the confusion I left, and plant daffodils, crocuses, snowdrops among the vines. I arrange them in a comprehensible chaos of health and fertilizer. A beautiful kind of clarity. Then I leave them for someone else to tend, maybe I’ll one day come back. Maybe I will not.