Writing The Book I Never Wrote(For Linda)

Pocket notebook full of poems written with a green fountain pen (in purple ink) with a calligraphic flourish left out in the storm. The words run wild go native revert to being just lines rivulets of words tributaries of words all flow and whirl into purple pools purple passages becoming watery hieroglyphs a secret language made only of water and wind. And now the hot sun of noon bakes the words cakes the pages 'til they turn and curl leaving the book in the position where words have thrown off their clothes and become as naked as paintings the unmistakable brushstrokes of rain and sun translated into their own native tongue.