Words would be empty noises,
slipping in and out of the void,
free to be ghostly,
drifting across a landscape to vast to contain.
Who knew the sky would sit on the knee of the earth
and tell it’s story.
who knew the sea would devour up all the detritus
and return it with such anger.
Why is listening so hard?
Who knew the noises would perforate his ears,
puncture, deflate: words yelled at him for past mistakes.
Waiting for a change of heart upstairs,
still chasing God’s design and the sun with a butterfly net.