Today’s prompt was to write about something that doesn’t speak, and what it has taught me.

They don’t talk but they do whisper –

the sound of thousands of pages moving

together.  A forest of words waiting for

you.

This one is old – its leather back

is tough like yesterday’s rind, and there’s a

split from here to here. But hold it up

and you will hear it hum with thoughts

that have had years to ferment.

Not wisdom, exactly – just knowledge,

human knowledge from another time

and place. Old words.

This one is much newer.  It smells of

print and its cover is the deep fuschia

of a bleeding heart.  Inside it lie

the remains of destroyed lives

distilled into language.  It wants you

to know.  To feel what it feels.  To

understand hurt and beauty and

grief and to see what words can do

when they’re set loose.

The old forest waits for you.

When you’re ready you’ll

walk amongst the trees, climb in their

branches, explore their worlds. 

It doesn’t want much from you –

just time and ordinary human

curiosity and mostly,

the urge to be free.