A stone in the lake

Some times idle, just a stone in the lake, you look to a humming bird and a moth and the least letter of word for work. Words are humming birds of green pocket with a heart beating just behind warmth.

Others’ phrases are tiny palpitating moths that die by the firelight of your old winter leaving heaps of fluorescent wings in gaps of doorways, in balconies that precipitate to abrupt darkness of wordless mid nights.

We scoop up their fluorescence to pockets but our work lies elsewhere, in other words beating warmly in our chest of furious work. Our idleness is words working to warm light.