Letters

     If the world were made of letters I would gather them in a wicker basket and string them up in my backyard.  I would invite my block to sing and dance and spell our favorite things.  And before everyone left to sleep they’d take their letters home with them, not to the attic or a safe under the stairs.  To be used every day; they would say their favorite things day in and day out and use the letters until they were worn and tattered.

     Vibrations of syllables would stream from our houses, moving mountains and breathing life.  Letters rolling down the street, slipping into every crack and filling holes where none should be.  Little girls would give them names and tuck them into sleep when they had done a long days work.  Grandpas would place them in glass cases so guests could always see and ask and children could play with their favorite words.

     I would wear a necklace of letters, around my neck and through my hair.  Flowing behind me, a train of nonsense waiting to become something real.  And when I was ready, I’d unbraid my hair and delicately hold each letter in my hand, creating a quilt of words so sweet my baby would never let go of them.  She would stay in the blanket of letters and things until she could read what they wrote.  Then she’d give them names and tuck them in and write them in poems and see them in dreams and she’d give her own baby her most favorite words.  To wrap herself up in and hold in her hands and place behind glass for her own.