The Artist

The Artist

The best place for harvest, she found, was a when, not a where: In the sun's last out-breath, just before the stars.

Not-day, not-night: that's when the words came.

And they rained.

Nouns and verbs and adjectives and prepositions ~ sometimes in sentences ~ sometimes beautifully alone ~ falling from heaven and seeding the ground around her.

She started with the best words - the shiniest, the longest, the fanciest - and put them aside. Underneath was where the joy was. She gathered all the forgotten words - the loners, the outcasts, the profane, the glorious, and the misunderstood - wrapped them in silence, and took to the sky.

From sky to the misfits, all over the world. To each god-shaped hole in each sufferer's heart, she dropped a word or two or ten.

And from the words ~ joy, relief, art and dreams stretched skywards; a fresh offering for tomorrow's harvest.