Domestic words
are yoked for work.
They will not
tell you secrets.
The wild breed
cannot be tamed.
They fly in forests
deep within.
But still the mind
and they appear.
They'll roost
right on the branches
of a page.
They sit awhile
and then fly off.
The type becomes
bare, winter trees.
But in the season
of quiet, they'll come again.
Max Reif
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/14-a-meditation-on-words/
