Poesis
In the beginning
There weren’t any words,
Only sounds and smells,
Shapes and colors,
In motion or at rest,
Weaving a pattern,
Woven into one.
Grunts and sighs prevailed,
Murmurs, cries, until
The flexible tongue warbled
A name, syllables
Designating a wonder
In a world of wonders.
Syllables begot syllables,
Wonder after wonder. Soon
There were as many
Words as wonders
And the world was cast
In doubt. Words should be
Exceptional. In the beginning …
Wonderful Frank,it got me thinking. My love for words since childhood has its foundations in certainty of some kind, a certainty about the abundance of security in my life, the security of love, of knowledge. Most of that knowledge has been conventional, I know, so when I start doubting some of what science tells, about climate change and evolution, I also lose a bit of the magic of that security. You know what I mean? Thanks for the poem!
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