April 1

I don't always choose words.
Over me, they hang
suspended, bouncing
on light, light string.

I catch them like spiders
on threaded webs,
carrying them, wisp and air,
floating past the dust mites
of my over-crowded mind.

I discard some,
annoyed,
and shudder
at their spidery-ness.
I shy from their unloveliness
and skittering shape and size.

Some words are uncomely;
eight-legged and untimely.
(Not all words are poetry.)

But some are fireflies.

April 1, 2011