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~ By Courtesy of Others ~


To Odin, God of Words

The right word stands
like a stone upthrust in a field.
Weathered, worn,
Shaped by its hardest core,
None but itself,
Horg to its own meaning.

Each word, a stone
Tumbled on the stream-bed.
My numbed fingers sift among them,
seeking among the blunt almost-fits,
for the one that is absent.
The sharp mot juste
that slices my pads
and bloodies the water.



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