Ruminant (Deerfield Fair)
I was at a loss for words.
But I looked around and found some in the junk drawer with the batteries, rubber bands, thumbtacks and matches. There was braided string, rummage, hodgepodge, and ladyslipper seashell. Also, close before striking.
In the refrigerator, I found tangerine, provender, sustenance and savor. Piquancy was in a small bottle on the door. In the vegetable drawer, with the baby carrots, I was surprised to find both dessication and putrefaction, together.
Most of the words in the dryer come from pockets. I kept Sacajawea. But I already have too many melted Chapsticks.
When I emptied the vacuum cleaner canister into the garage trash cans, I saw grit, filth, sediment and loess fall before I could do anything about it.
Childhood was in the toy chest, with nostalgia and pang.
Ennui had slipped down in the couch cushions, along with torpor and supine.
In the mirror, I discovered verisimilitude.
In a glass bowl on the coffee table, the goldfish makes words that rise in bubbles and float on the surface for a moment where they may be scooped with the small green net from the pet store. I caught supple, jeweltone, oddity, and charm.
The dog came in from the woods and brought thistle and sticktight seeds in his fur, russet oak leaves caught in his tail feathers. I picked them off and saved them in an old coffee can with a lid. Already inside: persnickety, cache, and hoard. I keep the can on a bookshelf.
Books have a lot of words. But the only way to get them out is to read the books, the words going in through your eyes, and then at night while you sleep the words fall out of your ears and corners of your mouth and sink into the pillows where they get caught in the eiderdown. In the morning, shake the pillows over a bucket then sift through the words to see if there are any keepers.
I read some poetry the other night. I woke up with white apples, twenty-foot waves and black-faced sheep.
Play a good word game…