The Poet

She had a brain injury of sorts, not physical or mental. just elemental. Now she speaks in a language that has no beginning nor end. She speaks from a Fountain, a Wellspring. Out pours the bewildering and the inexplicable, words never found or lost an idiom that passes all logical understanding but can be grasped only on the wing. An ephemeral argot, flickering like a single Mayfly in a tempest of vying articulations. Her speech is beautiful even when ugly, it is poetry. They keep asking her to slow down but she is way ahead of them - she always will be.