from the collection of: d. heidel

Tell me what the word means.  Its roots, its tendrils, reaching down into the darkness of prehistory.  Back, before history had a meaning, before history even had a direction.  Back, when all that existed was today’s dawning light and hunger and the smell of prey and the chase and capture and violent shaking (twitch, twitch), shake some more (pause, twitch), shake and shake and shake until muzzle, covered with blood, senses no more twitching.  And then gulping.  Satiety.  And rest.  And dark comes and a groan of pleasant wakefulness then.

Somewhere in that simple place of taste-and-smell, the word began as a sound, a grunt, a sigh.  The root of meaning.  Branching out to another hairy body resting in the area.  And I know what you mean (sigh).

Tell me what the word means.  The root of it.  The sound of it.  And where that sound connects to pure feeling.  The feeling of the tongue in a certain shape as it crafts the air to take on the emotion of the gut.  A sculpture that lasts for a single breath.  A kiss wherein the scented exhalation is explored with the tongue for as long as that exhalation might last.

Tell me what the word means.  And, in knowing the meaning, I might control it.  But, of course, the word only burns without consuming and crackles its mood upon my brow before I must put my forehead to the ground (or I will be consumed by it).

Tell me what the word means.

I wait and am still.

Quiet.

And therein is the meaning.