Words drop softly with their silver wings.
Some catching the breeze and carrying on,
ships in full sail.
Others arrive as prisms of light
and you watch their many colours pass,
lit by the sun.
Some, you run after,
panting with anxious breath,
only to have them slip like the tantalising
butterfly from grasp.
Ah, sometimes to look up
is to see a thousand words floating
and changing directions in the high blue currents,
that you can only imagine
the shape and contents of them.
At which point, the only course remaining
is to sit down in the long grass,
let your laboured breathing slow,
and put out your hands,
as soft beckoning invitations
coaching to you the untame.
You might find, if you can still yourself
to match the earth
and her quiet breathing,
they will come then,
and in rising confidence unfurl.
Until there you are,
all these words
falling from your tongue.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry