Up and Out

The words,

still climb up

and out,

and I can 

still find,

and phrase them.

Some days,

they curl and weave,

towards a cottage,

by the sea,

covering it with fragrant

flowers,

roses mostly.

 

Other days,

they hang,

wilted and spent,

not much left to them,

resembling what they once were:

radiant orange fire blooms,

picked over and used,

for a string of words,

that say it,

but don’t.

 

Yet still,

they keep on climbing,

up

and

out.