no contact with another human being,
no dictionary nor guide for punctuation,
No word for flower
when earth is blanketed in ermine,
language would be loomed,
a word woven
to share a sense of relevance.
Even on the darkest night
when clouds cover the constellations,
we write our world plush or harsh,
in vernacular bright or gray,
in dissonance or symphony.
in the middle of a storm,
how morose our universe would be,
if there were no words
to conjure images of morning.