Sometimes it takes a week or more
for the words to sink in,
get past the callous crust,
irrigate, grow roots
and flower in the brain.
My scalp must be littered with debris
of brittle stems, wild seed and chaff
hidden in a forest of gray follicles
waiting to germinate
after a good rain.
But I get it now—see the words,
not the speaker, on paper—
each packing its own weight
in an even flow across
a cultivated field of furrows.