There are other ways
than language.

Let’s observe
simply
the fire before us.

The way a match
ignites to startle
a moment.

Look for the softest light
a distant wildfire
quiet because it is
involved in night.

The kind of surface
that melts the sun
into a tiny
puddle of gold.

This is more of
primeval voice
returning its wind
to the rain.

This is mouth
allowing for song
to water its
valley.

This is still
earth living
behind a window
seeing its ground
swallow
pregnant fruit.

There are other ways
than ideas.

Let’s dry the story
and blind the
behavior.

See the strong
shadow stumble
to break its
shell.

The ground
fertile
with the patience
of time.

This is more
of the ocean
leaking its body
to closely
understand
the sand.

Once we pull
language
as a thorn
out of the world.

This
and only
this
will remain.