One of the worlds I live in is made only of words. Word houses with word people drinking word coffee and eating word toast. The word world does not believe in other worlds. In other worlds the stars trade baseball cards with the moon, the wind drops love notes from the sky, and rocks sing hymns to the sea.
Some days I live in many worlds at once. I think in music and in paintings. Today there is a pink and white and purple tree on my street that has just come into bloom. I don’t know what they call it in the word world, but I do know what they call it in other worlds. In some worlds trees have names and can speak. In other worlds trees breath in sorrow and breath out light.
In the word world this all makes no sense. In other worlds, words make no sense. This is not meant to convince you that these other worlds exist, that they are all around you, in the spaces between your fingers and in the silent sadness, pretzel-knotted in your belly. No. Let me tell you a secret. If you reach into your computer screen and pull these words out onto your desk, you will see that they are not really even words. Run your fingers across the marble letters and they will climb over each other, reposition their curves and angles. Don’t blink or you will miss it. Look again. These words have become a small wooden boat, on lake of deep red wine, in the lamp of the full moon. And in its timbered belly, an invitation to sail away, to places where words scatter like dandelions in the wind of unspeakable beauty.