I stalk words
Like the tiger slow-stalks,
Hungry-prowls, the green-glow jungle—
Sun shafts shimmer on stripe-stripe skin—
He slinks through the swish-tall grass.
I hunt wary words, tense-jawed, lithe-shouldered—
Creep. Crawl. Crouch.
I catch words
Like the criss-cross leaves
Catch the tumble-fall rain;
Splitter-splatter drops drip-drip-slip
In the curve of a fresh green whorl—
I trap wet words in the valleys of my palms,
Lift my hands to my lips;
I mine words
From the rough dark rock—
My pick sweet-sticks,
Smooth-finds, the half-hid crack.
Fingers hard-gripped and one-wrong-stroke missed—
I find, keen-eyed, the silver-thin vein,
© 2015 Deborah King