The words that lurk unused in former rambles, denizens of old dreams, the lingering hint like unfinished conversations, these come now to witness. I can feel them slowly rolling deep inside, like the ocean waves before they break with white, big surges beneath the smooth surface. They smell like dusty dried lavender, like the ancient lace doily that sat upon my great-grandmother’s dresser. Her mother’s hands that wove the delicate thread are long dead.

How many things to say, how many have been said, how many will be repeated. I have no delusions of grandeur, no hope for immortality, and I recognize this untouchable electronic page will someday cease to mean what it once meant, a riddle for a rainy day. Rearrange the letters. A palindrome is just a word and its shadow. This is not even as necessary as a bundle of dried herbs, not even permanent as intricately woven fabrication of lace. Is it fatalistic or pessimistic to consider vanity and impermanence as such, and yet still strive to bloom?

I’ll catch you in the rye, snag and hold and you’ll walk home with stickers in damp pantcuffs and socks. Remember and do not. If the written word expresses thought and remembrance, then quarantine, defilade, protect those memories. Take care in what words you keep.