Wordle

I don't remember where I started. I think it must have been random at first, while I found my place. I never fell for the rich man's word, audio, nor the smartypants salet I didn't know, suggested instead of the more obvious tales. Then for a moment I had a word that was mine, one which I no longer remember. A story? A trace, maybe, that vanished without. One day my friend told us about her tears and that struck me as so deeply right that I took it on as my own. Start the day by getting tears out of the way; see if, broken into individual components, my tears could belong somewhere. Then this winter talking to my sister, best beloved, who leads (of course) with her heart and then, being who she is, considers its function, I found myself again letting go of my poetic approach when offered to consider the practicality at hand. I'm thinking now that I could have been a bit more original by thinking of fears or things I'd found, but the heart and the pound of it had too great appeal. Now what? Now we are three. My brother starts with a word that is not adieu, no fancy goodbyes, just getting all the important things out of the way, clearing the passage, the alure. He plays largely on instinct, as he lives, sees patterns we miss, and finishes before us with meanings he doesn't know while we bookishly reach with sounds for the words we cannot say. My third is flick, reminding me of the friendly films of my youth and also the things I wish I could do quickly, get rid of. I'm almost always done in five, five minutes, the five fingers that make two plus three, full fathom five, the fifth wheel. I never lose, except when I do.