She confronts an object, strange upon the page,
and cracks it sound by sound. Slow sibilant,
popped plosive, rhotic smile, bowing diphthong,
all concluded with a light dental stop:
s-p-r-ou-t.

A word is a machine fuelled by sound.
Disassemble the parts then piece it back
together, a sonic code for blueprints.
It’s newly built each time it’s discovered,
driving the motion of thought.

A word is a plant, cultivated from ancestor
varieties, that grows in the mind.
Its roots swell and signal to others
along the networks of earth,
grounding your fertile tongue.

A word is an animal
that stubbornly blocks the sentence
and will not be caged or tamed.