An Alliterative Apology

Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers and nobody asked why. Alliteration is the poet's parlor trick— the showy sibling of subtlety, the sequined suit at the serious party. But listen: when the words walk together, wearing the same first letter like a uniform, something happens in the mouth— a music that meaning alone cannot make. Big, bold, brazen beauty— the b's bounce like basketballs in a gym. Slow, silver, silent snow— the s's slide like something slipping away. Language is not just what we say. It's how the saying feels against the teeth, the tongue, the roof of the mouth that holds the sound before releasing it into the room like a bird that was always meant to fly.