Idyolic

Words twist back and forth between
The storm outside the window,
And the comforts of more words.

Company is easier
To find in the talking crowds,
Where anyone can tell you

It’s not smart—it’s quietist
And outright delusional
To think words are natural

Or can describe the flowers
Of the wind’s waves on the lake,
Blooming and self-consuming.

Words should run with other words,
And in fact words have no choice.
Wind’s a monster, not a voice.