Wordle 196


Brenda Warren

How long have we stood here

Face to face waiting for a sign,

Waiting for the miles between

Our words to confiscate themselves,

For either a spell or an aim to swallow

Our far-ranging trepidation?

I have never tasted

The fruits of my mind

The scorching brittle fruit,

Pith’ed in nimbus and pitted

With a deadly and noncommittal maybe

We cannot live on trite conditionals.

I fashion the tatters of my spirit

Into a set of wings and although dormant

They are still formidable to behold.

The sun chimes, my hands itch

I rake them through tufts of grass

Whole continents of mines

Laid out side by side

Wherever there exists

A sliver of untenanted land.

Beauty is the surfacing

Of the monumental

In what once was obvious,

The sincere application of a smile

Where no other light can be found.

I know your smile, it is the arrow

To my rapt and ready tension.

I set my watch by your impatience,

The rhythmic extrapolations

Of your forefinger against

A wall of silence.

How does one surpass almost?

And what is more certain than yes?