the meaning of a word

a sound in your breathing:

a moment when

there really is nothing that could say it.  a sound.

it does not capture;  it lets go.

in the moonlight first shaded by morning

she walks to the deck and i meet her there.

we say hi and mean it, our faces washed with smile.

i pretend to be

a baby dragon, explore my new

body, the smoothness of the joints,

and the heavy tail!  how does it balance--

"those big fancy cats-- they've got it all figured out!"

and her face is so expressive,

light blue and above the jungle, 

she's waving her arms and opening her eyes

and i try and then i stop trying 

to speak 

and rock back and forth 

through the air,

move every last piece of me.

we giggle 

and then we laugh.

midday i escape from an adventure walk

led by a brave child.

i wander my legs through the pull of the ocean.

i open my voice and make a song.

it has not many words.

i sing them over and over.

now i try it again, but where'd the words go?  
all that repeating, and
i've left them there

in the hot trails of sand on my soles,

near the geometric section of lobster shell

curved and smooth-jointed by its own bone, 

gravestone armour decorated in math:

pink and purple and

white.

the words were glyphs on the lobster shell,

and here is that song again.