Sentences are orphaned words crossing the road, holding on tightly.

I’m reading a lot of sentences about sentences lately.

There’s Stanley Fish’s How To Write A Sentence and How To Read One.

And, yesterday, Verlyn Klinkenborg (author of Several Short Sentences About Writing) asked the deceptively simple question “Where Do Sentences Come From?”  I liked it. I like his admonishment to be comfortable in that dark, cavernous place called the mind: patient in the presence of your own thoughts.

This is another answer to the question:

It comes precisely from that dark cavern but it stays fearful, quick and cautious. And, more importantly, it doesn’t seek to expound or demystify. It answers our call while remaining deliciously mysterious, sad and eerie.

A poem’s eight short lines taught me more than any book I’ve read this week. Sentences are orphaned words crossing the road, holding on tightly. They come from the Children’s Home and it’s our job to convey them carefully.