no contact with another human being,
no dictionary nor guide for punctuation,
No word for flower
when the leaves turn red and golden,
language would be loomed,
a word woven
to share a sense of relevance.
We write our world with red of roses,
periwinkle and lapis skies and seas,
loden stems and pungent rosemary,
with clang and bang
in the middle of a storm,
how morose our universe would be,
if there were no words
to conjure images of morning.