After the Words

​They say that words have power
But there is nothing
In these words
That can recreate the way
Sunlight, fluttering over fresh grasses
Leaks into a ribcage
And lifts a soul
Up through a heart
And out through tears.

No word, for when
A single seed head,
Outlined against a summer sky,
Held, so softly, in time and space
Like a sweetheart holds their lover,
Unstops the plug of separateness
And lets loose
The fountain of being
To bubble up
And freely flow
Into that clear, forever, blue.

How can we say?
Words are simply not
The latticework
Of oak branch,
Filigree against the Moon,
Nor the rainbow sharpness
Of icy stars
Exploded over black.
They are not the moment
When one eye pours into another
Nor the thrill of possibility
Struck like a spark across a flint.

But after the words
The core of who we are
Takes one more step to vastness
And meets itself.