She picks flowers from the air
with delicate fingertip grasps
and transforms them
to random words, spoken
in the same gentle spirit
by which she plucks
meaning
from the space
between us.
In whispers
the words rise
to where she found them.
Then I float
full of wonder and dread
through the doorway,
past the nurses’ station,
down bland corridors,
out into night air
and the mudpuddle splash
of voices in recent rain.
I enter other rooms,
into an intense,
cinematic,
boisterous, rapier
flood of syllables
which washes me
out
into the street
where I pick flowers
from the air
with trembling hands,
receive a communion
melt on the tongue
of words
drifting far
from this world.
—–
Poem for dVerse Poets Open Link Night.
