Gary Imperial
MY WORDS ARE
Some are the wind strewn wordlings from off a dead poet's Redwood. In the breeze of speech and speculation looking to be rooted in moist fertile mind soil. While others are embryonic embers keeping my campfire coffee warm with inspiration. They are the sound of accomplishment. The last draw of the violin bow at the end of a holiday concert with its final note at its most elevated point, separating performance from praise till it dissipates and becomes one with the holly and spice in the air. They are the sprinkles of green and red on the cut out cookies of Snowmen and Santas, the walnuts and white chocolate chunks that make up the tasty textured landscape of gift cookies. My words have been all these things and more. And now my words are yours.
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