Winning Word Play

 

Today, words dance,
prance in front of me
because they know we are
going to make poetry.
Bend and twist, like some
sort of misty chorus line,
insist on being known, showing
some leg, flash of an ankle
and even more as they
pour onto stage inside
my head.

Not like last week
when I needed them,
and they would play
hide and seek, staying
just out of reach, giggling
at my frustration. Teasing
with a fleeting glimpse,
becoming playful imps,
then running away, intent
on the chase, while setting
a pace this old woman
could not keep, making
me weep in utter defeat
at their lack of cooperation.

But now, slide with ease
down seemingly greased
tunnel to ear, and I hear
each one plop into place
extending their grace
as I bend this pen to their
intended performance.

“It’s Sunday,” they say,
“so we will behave, be good,
be nice, but add needed spice
to those aging and stiffened
fingers. Limber up that
flagging desire with bits
of warm fire, gathered sticks
from your very own experience.
Reward you for staying true,
and patiently faithful to
our long ago agreed upon
purpose.”

And I?
I let them, of course,
as with gentle affection
they drape a wide blue ribbon
across my shoulders, then pat
it in place with bright smiling
faces, “so that everyone will know,
and can see, that together, we
are the only true winners.”

Elizabeth Crawford 1/11/09

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