More words make more woods.
More trees. More leaves. More branches
reaching toward sun, sky, and one
another.
More words make more mistakes.
More wounds. More angry silences,
walking through more woods with more
thoughts
on reasons why one misplaced syllable makes
so strange the sound of a word.
What were the words again
that hurt me so that I slammed the door
hard to emphasize the sound
of my anger
and went walking
barefoot in the grass, bending
to touch water trickling over
large, moss-covered stones,
gathering dry sticks for kindling
and thick logs?
Returning, I say: Here are the limbs
and logs I gathered
to re-kindle the fire that surely
must by now be nearly going
out.
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