Noctilucent

“I am so clever that sometimes I don’t
understand a single word of what I am
saying.”
— Oscar Wilde

“I love writing. I love the swirl and
swing of words as they tangle with human
emotions.”
— James A. Michener

“So the writer who breeds more words
than he needs is making a chore for the
reader who reads.”
— Dr. Suess

“I have this strange feeling that I’m
not myself anymore. It’s hard to put into
words, but I guess it’s like I was fast asleep,
and someone came, disassembled me, and
hurriedly put me back together again. That
sort of feeling.”
— Haruki Murakami,
“Sputnik Sweetheart”

The words with which we write were created long ago. Who can say how or by whom? Who can say the cost? But we have been using them freely, stretching them, prodding them, parading them. And they have been returning the favor, crafting us as we craft them.

And what of those who read? The rreaders are riders upon these vocabularied ssteeds. ctf And as the riders ride their bodies carry the meanings that carry them away, that carry them still, currying favor and flavor, nascent nuance and noble assent aand descending mounts.

We are free to write and read here on this ground.

It is a pleasant tree we climb from inside out, from outside in. No hero here in today abides or falls. Just lions and lambs at picnic, together imbibing light of sun and moon, fully fed like this in shining fare and profusion. Tasting in that whatever flavor feeds best. Hearing the song of choice. Seeing all, a dancing stylus stylized, each for each fundament complete and pure.

The tomes of ground are open to the printing and reprint of poetic feet and fete. Newly the news be met this day: creamy and intelligent; open and elegant; simple semaphore and sublime.

Let the words come bearing gifts of lifting, unleashing, joyous scrying. Let the crafters and the crafted emerge each the other penetrating lavish, more munificent and more consummate, extricated and unshackled.

And when the storied day is done, spoken well and clean, may all be deep and dear with the speak of breath, knowing and known.

Thanks to all who speak, to all who hear, to all who join with the wee. Thanks for the saying, the engraving of the evaporating. Thanks for the elemental glee. Thanks for the inspiration, perspiration, incarnation. Thanks for all who move and love and give and step the steeping steppe to a new leaf: folio by turns, yearns and all ready full some, aureate.

And as our wordy awakening dawns this day, we see, we say: Replete, complete yet making newly still.

And sow these words. And so, just sew. Just saying...

Seeing you, diaphanous between the lions. You are noted but not captured, first the rolling plane a glimmering vast and spacious. You are not mist amidst the vastly stretchings of gerunds ground and cloud and sky, loving you with aye and fullest heart and art full.

My breath is incensing, this moving protoplasmic light fantastic opening wide. You are the speak hardly easy but still at ease.

See the singing is your bard. Incline your declensions. Proclaim your intentions. Be conjunction and function. Interjection.

Perfection. ¦

— Rx is the FloridaWeekly muse who hopes to inspire profound mutiny in all those who care to read. Our Rx may be wearing a pirate cloak of invisibility, but emanating from within this shadow is hope that readers will feel free to respond. Who knows: You may even inspire the muse. Make contact if you dare.