What becomes of the words when we wait too long? When it is too late, when the chance to utter them is lost. Do we hold them, captive in our mind, waiting for opportunities that will not come? Do we send them in a prayer, a wish, abandoning them to the winds, trusting that they will find their way? Do we write them, longhand on paper, and allow flames to consume their curves?
Silent, yet unquiet.
Perhaps they seep, over unmeasured time, from our soul and into the world.
When the light falls softly on the land, and the change of the season is close enough to taste, they flit through the skies, seeking those who would hear,
But cannot listen.