I have spent my life in the company of those who like to talk about words. Their power (so they say) mightier than the sword.
But words are just one language, and — hear me — there are others.
Ones I am just now beginning to learn…
In the last light, I go walking down the road to the woods.
I shake the sun from my shoulders — watch it fall like glass prisms, shattering on the pavement.
(The light is only multiplied in the breaking.)
So I stand there in the circle of winking shards … and look up.
Open my arms.
This — trust me — is language.
Then, too, there is the language of flowers.
There is the language of the shutter, opening to sun. The language of paint sliding slow against canvas. The dancer’s body, turning in a slow circle.
The language of skin.
Feel my hands now, pulling you against me.
Feel my head tucked under your chin, my breath against your neck, my fingertips at your lips in the gesture of hush —
as we stand still — so still —
and the light rains down around us —
Oh, Love. Put away your sword. And just stand here with me, silent:
… speaking. ❤