The Word

I’m sure that at first it’s floating,

Maybe in the literary soup of my brain,

Maybe in the air, waiting to be plucked

For the use of my whirling thoughts.

Sooner or later, I summon it forth,

Rolling it about in my mind,

Testing its strength, its accuracy,

Its shape and its sound.

It bounces against my skull,

Eager to make itself known.

I let it roll into my mouth,

Onto my tongue, or down my spine

Tingling my nerves as it whizzes

To the very tips of my fingers.

Breaking the silence

With the muffled epiphany of the lips

Or the quiet scratching of a pencil,

The Word comes to life,

And I am relieved of the weight

Of one more heavy idea.