The Words
shift
like sliding, overcast
shades of gray,
dark and forbidding
and then the break.
The apple of Apollo’s eye
turns golden
and The Words shift like
rippling waves
of green
in the
windblown grass.
They feel better,
freer,
like bare feet
wriggling toes in the soil.
The Words grow
taller, stronger,
happier
They spill out energetically
like
tossed dice,
for all to see and hear
loaded
with life.
© Alfred W. Smith Jr
Beyond Panic 