fill a page with words.  draw each one carefully, lovingly from the puzzle box of your mind.  polish them, watch their facets catch and reflect the light.  craft the perfect setting then slip each one discreetly in.  plan the pattern on purpose, ponder.

imaginative anne once thought that a diamond was a wondrous, dazzling purple and cried when she saw only the clear, cold glitter.  she wondered afterward if amethysts were the souls of good violets.  when i saw a ruby i felt cheated.  instead of the vivid blood-red stone i imagined i beheld instead a pinky, almost cloudy bauble.  why was it that the gem of my dreams was the cheap garnet and the worth of rubies was rated close to that of virtuous women? 

rubies are rare, so it would seem.  i found one in a salted bucket at a mine where you pay to dig.  i picked through the dirt of a kimberlite pipe in a farmer’s field to find a handful of shiny garnet fragments.  is value, then, in the beholder’s mind?

great writers who carefully select and refine their language often use words i would never consider using.  some of them are unknowns and some are deplorable.  is there value in the planned and executed chaos of syntax?  is new better? 

there are libraries filled with musty, weighty tomes written by the agonized dead and museums full of the jewelry they wore. 

my puzzle box is in league with the ancients of days of yore.