It’s a miracle when one act of communication takes place.
We take it for granted. “Hello,” and “Goodbye,” but what about the words we're not sure how to say and stubbornly try?
Every syll-a-ble we learn is from someone close by.
The voice of a friend or the first time you heard your grandma speak to your mom in a way that made sense, when she smiled so you figured you knew now what to do.
You got it. So did she. And what about him?
“This flower is red,” that much is true. But “This flower is soft,” could be misconstrued. “I was talking about color,” she shrugs as she sits. He insists, “A flower is petals and my first Valentine’s kiss.”
How many words for one simple thing? A moment remembered? An idea flying through?
And so you see, even flowers mislead. If they can (uh-oh) what chances do we have to receive or to give in the way
your experience taught and your family still chooses, and what of the friends that come and go, and the fights someone wins and another one loses?
Brick by brick the schema is built, and we climb to the top
and fall until
what I said is what you heard or close enough to be understood.
Iris Lennox 