wordherd | a poem by a Faust

wordherd

if words arrive and disappear in herds, could we grow symbiotic

think of oxen,  of cattle, or sheep, of goats,  or horses

think of  breathtaking sunrises, dappled hillsides bucolic

think of trees standing guard as brooks babble their courses

or just allow me a moment to think thereupon

and to think myself happily employed therein

steering my precious livelihood hither and yon

to where be the best grazing that we haven’t been

and come nightfall i’ll gather kindling and wood

and build light out of darkness and flame from desire

and perhaps weave clothing from a phrase that had served as my food

longing for the morning’s metaphorical milk, i retire

neither farmer,  nor hunter, nor gatherer i

whose way with words prefers asking how over why

written on account of @rhymesradical

april 14, 2020

 by a female faust