In The Forests We've Yet To Write - A Magic Box Poem for @CWPFairfield Poets (A Language Game)

In The Forests We've Yet To Write

Words are our family,

the blizzard of butterscotch and vanilla vineyards,

    & water wizards who help us to swim upstream,

    (or so it seems) 

     while we scream in search of hummingbirds

and those other nerds who barbecue

in Sriracha sauce,

and need more sugar in their coffee.

We are the cacophony of light and life,

the music, the dance, the language, the culture

and the chance to write from African traditions.

We are the history, the mother country, the communities

of workers, of artists and of hunters doodling thoughts

onto sketch paper, and taking wands to Dumbledore’s penceive.

We, the writers,
are bounded and blogged together,

sketched onto journals and notebooks

of who we are

exactly right here,

right now.

They arrived to play on the summer stage,

bumping their post-school rage

before a murmur of a chatty audience.

They warmed their souls with tossed frisbees,

clogging their feet against wooden floors

before the explosion of an applause,

joked, hit, set, bumped,  and laughed

from kicking a ball around,

warming the soul, profound,

while writing under the sun.

She is the Queen still waiting to be written,

the chapter of peppered chalkboards

dusted beyond the blackness

when shutting off the t.v.

    

She blends galaxies out of nothing into

e v e r y t h i n g

questioning…questioning…questioning

quickly the quagmire, quirky,

quoting quixotically this quality and ease.

Because the wood nymph hugs those we love most,

 dancing on the roots of the trees

 deepening their thoughts in windy winters,

 the breeze, 

  that moves beyond the honking of I-95 traffic,

carrying sea shells, tangerines, apples, and rain

  through wet forests, rocky soils and metro trains,

On the wings of a faerie,

the next Connecticut tree awaits to be planted.