The Words

The words try too hard to say
what comes so easily to my heart
They strain to define
the what of you –
the soul, the spirit
the elan vitale

They flounder about
gape and drool
like Idiots
in a pie eating contest

And never arrive at
the finish line
Off course, eternally
dehydrated and lost
craving water

Forgetful of their mission
Distracted by the blue-ing sky
purple finger-painted sunsets
Picnics and roller coasters

They sneak away
like randy teenagers
on a summer night
Just one small word
hangs back….


Happy Birthday, Dad.