start from the ground,

deep in the earth where it is dark and quiet.

Waiting still

In the dark.

A sigh

and a wiggle of the toes

but still

in the dark!


for sounds that may

or may not grow

into a symphony….perhaps.

Still, in the dark,

Winter cold eats into toes that feel the deep dark soil

that catches between them like sand on a beach,

scratching a sound in the dark.

Waiting still, in the dark,

Asleep in the comfort of velvet soil,

warm and soft where the wood sap seeps.

Why would any seed want to grow?

But growing


swelling, resting, resting, resting, gaining, moving, pushing,

call it what you will…

Moving through and up and out…

What could stop it?

Still in the dark


when comfort’s seen

it slaps the face

like an old wet fish

and anger roars from its slumber,

thrashing and howling like a small child that doesn’t know what anger is.

And so words

grow like body or mind, out of the ground and from that darkness into