Before I came to write

I thought before I came to write
That words would be like rock.
You choose a piece and turn it
And heave it into place.

Each word must fit the rest
And suit the space and shape
Then each single solid word
Will be set
For posterity

Until a path is built
Both flat and smooth
Firm beneath the feet
And people will walk on it
Surely.

But I found that words are like water
Running in the creek
You can dip your hands and cup your palms --
Or open your fingers and let the words run out
And rejoin the stream.

Soon with fingers dripping
And dipped again
Into the stream of language
Words coincide with thought
For brief moments
And become consumable.

I didn't know that words
were just water
Trapped momentarily
and then let go.