What Words Can’t Do

They cannot translate the song of a chickadee volleying with the call of a cardinal. They cannot speak birdsong, or jazz, or rock and roll. They are limited, vague tools ~ clumsy even in the poet’s hand for much work. Like trying to pick a lock with a jackhammer. Like trying to do counted cross stitch with a knitting needle. Words, though I love them, are not up to the task of translating the distinct and unique song each of my children plays upon my heart. Three exquisite chimes ~ all pleasing to the ear, but how can I help you to know that unless I can run my fingers across the chimes themselves? Be the wind upon which they play? Can I tell you of purple, pink, orange, blue, if you have not seen them first?
Words are all I have. Were I an artist, I could paint in abstract swirls that which cannot be spoken ~ and you, letting the color dance wash over you ~ would feel it in that place we all share that is deeper than language. Or if I were a musician, who crafted with sound haunting melody, impending danger, falling in love, you would hum with me, note to note. Music is unambiguous. Words are grasping at straws.
Words are Plato’s shadows on the cave. They are the hint of a wisp of a smoke that escapes from the fire, but not the fire itself. Close enough to touch, but not touched. Words cannot be the breeze on your cheek. Words cannot be the color palette of a rainbow. Nor a garden. Nor love. They cannot translate except in metaphor and simile. What is a metaphor but an elegant tool to try to unlock the thing itself? Like a schoolgirl in love. Like a ship without sail. Like a fly buzzing against the pane of glass, I am a poet vainly trying to enter within. Bruised and tired, words are still my passion.