Consider the willow.

She is, um, willowy.

A withe, we say.

A wheel.

A welter.

A twist, a roll, a waltz and a wave.

A voluminous wale, walk, and most of all a gush.

A gushing forth.

This Earth, this Urwelt, this place before humans speaking its gush is known today as random pattern that accumulates into statistical meaning.

This voluble, evolving vault.

This welling, this well, this mouth, and all the language people have made from it. This whirl.

This world.

Out of this will, our ancestors wove themselves, and us, their whelps, and out of its whips and winding wends we can weld the only future there is and wield this ancestral womb.

Let us be well and wash over the shores of thought, bright with gold finches and flashes of sun becoming fish, which is to say that the well, the mouth, speaks back to the source, which is to say “I have come again with all I know,”

and to be welcomed home: to be, in fact, well.  We read mind and fill with mindfulness. Anything else is just willful violence.