Words are things, just like the translucent sky which, my grandmother says, is, in fact, a thing. The flowers in my courtyard are the blue sky with new insect-stars appearing in the twilight .These are just like words, thingy and palpable .
When they freeze under the leaves they become icicles and when they verily thaw, they tingle your skin and feel on your tongue like December snow.
Poetry- words are splinters of a broken sky. The long arms of the morning sun spread warm words as though the evening to come promises pure happiness .The ugly caterpillar eats beauty-holes in our garden leaves which are poetry- words scrawled in thick sticky leaves and then they become fatter on the flanks with floral designs. The stinking caterpillar then disappears beyond the fence leaving behind incandescent thingy poetry- words.