Searching for words is seeking water

mid-mesa.

Not a tree in sight.

Blessed sage basks in full sun.

Rain falls, drifts away.

Soon tarantulas will promenade,

romancing their coupling dance

to create the next generation.

No, the words are water

and the Maker decides when and how

they drift or drive or well up

through this hollow reed.

Let syllables drip from the tongue unsought,

honey for those hungry

and in need of that particular soul balm.