I want words to breathe like I do, weep and bruise.

I want words to dream and remember those dreams that first set me on this path.

I want words to grow old with me and become the lines in my face and tell me old stories that keep my stumbling spirit from falling and new ones that tell of love forever young and freely given.

I want words of no regret even for the sorry waste of all I have left undone.

I want words to hold up a mirror and see all who have gone hand in hand with me through this life, as old and young as the morning.

O that words would fall like these tears and mark the page in silver and gold, though I be nothing but the sound the restless wind makes at night, the wind that sweeps down the mountain, past all the houses of the dead, and, gathering up all lost souls, scatters what is but dust and ash in the sea, now remembered.