Stutter at Jewel

Stutter at Jewel

(“Don’t forget about your leaders who taught you God’s message. Remember what kind of lives they lived and try to have faith like theirs.” Hebrews 13:7)

How many tags can adhere to one life,
notecarded a word at a time;
capitalized for punctuation,
handwritten for affirmation
that our opinions are true
(not me, you, in the background, trying to silence the
sounds of your own name broadcast too loud).

Where do we place the labels after
the lapels, threadbare, can carry the adhesive no more?
How do we write the names that never blamed
forgotten appointments on feeble and constant
distractions, or fractions of duty less than whole?

Some definitions do only justice to one word at a time,
some words cannot contain their meanings, adding syllable to
syllable,
suffixes appended like a trainful of cabooses.

Some stutter at jewel brilliance and hue,
while others babble, sputtering around the helix
like a vine repeating its circle up a frontporch
pole.

We repeat the dictionary and still starve for more to
serve guests gathered who wonder how we got so far.
We could repeat the name, him or them, her or those,
and a few closely following the local news from day
dawn until near dusk
could nod as we file the gratitude where it
fairly belongs.