I picked up the marbles that had fallen to the floor
and put them all back in my mouth.
I closed my lips around them
it’s time to be silent again.
I’ve learned that I am not skilled at this
gleaning the meaning of words.
I line them up neatly in rows
and place them on page after page.
I read them over line by line
time and time again.
I follow the storyline, hear the characters sing
yet I come back to this place again.
I’ve come to find that it’s really just me
that I spend too much time dreaming alone.
That the pictures I paint inside of my mind
are never the way things are.
The colors and textures confuse me
I see and feel them as they touch me.
The problem again is perspective
I’m not standing where they are.
Those who tell the stories to me
that keep me vividly rapt.
I don’t always see where they are standing
as I am mesmerized by words.
I thought I could give the colors names
and place them in jars on a shelf.
So that when it came time to talk about them
they could be used as cues.
Like signals, perhaps, or points of reference
but that sounds silly now even to me.
So the marbles and brushes and paper and pens
are going back into that box.
I am going back to my books to learn
and maybe this won't happen again.