What if words rose and rose, overflowing separation and species, pouring into a language-in-motion, a communion of verbs?

What would be the verb for ‘river’, how would we write the words ‘snow’ and ‘wind’…

Let me be a scribe, a mother weaving words from one queendom to another, looming them from soil to dewdrop to cedar tree, from death to life. Words in motion, fine as dandelion silk, lit by a star.

Let us hear you again mother nature, let us speak one language-in-motion, and hear with one ear of joy.

Julia Casciola ©