10-04-2011, 03:00 PM
A word
Is a passion,
A single
Candlelit night
After a thunderstorm,
A firefly
In a just opened jar.
This
Is a word.
It will not
Bring flowers
To your door
In a straw basket.
It will not
Pay gratuity
In a restaurant
With change from its red purse.
A ferry,
It ships our children away
When it is time for them
To be buried
In slumber.
A bucket,
It draws embers
From the bottom of its well.
A scar,
It fastens
Onto the cadence
Of your voice,
And with
Every breath, every whisper
I cannot help
But think of a word
As a passenger boarding
On a crowding train
Destined to reach you
From me.
Is a passion,
A single
Candlelit night
After a thunderstorm,
A firefly
In a just opened jar.
This
Is a word.
It will not
Bring flowers
To your door
In a straw basket.
It will not
Pay gratuity
In a restaurant
With change from its red purse.
A ferry,
It ships our children away
When it is time for them
To be buried
In slumber.
A bucket,
It draws embers
From the bottom of its well.
A scar,
It fastens
Onto the cadence
Of your voice,
And with
Every breath, every whisper
I cannot help
But think of a word
As a passenger boarding
On a crowding train
Destined to reach you
From me.