A Word (n.) is, when used newly in a discussion, like a fresh seed sown on the ground.
A Word (n.) is, when uttered, like striking a note on the keyboard of the imagination.
A Word (n.) that is new is like a fresh seed thrown on the ground of the discussion.
A Word (n.) is known only in certain contexts: knowing what 'three feet' and 'I feel' mean does not tell you what 'I feel the water three feet down' means.
A Word (n.) may be used in a thousand different ways that gradually merge into one another — no wonder we can't tabulate strict rules for it.
A Word (n.) read backwards has a new face.
A Word (n.) is slippery to count: are 'have' and 'had' one word, or 'bank' for money and 'bank' for a river?
A Word (n.) repeated over and over loses all its meaning, and heard out of context it may flip from one meaning to another in a moment.
A Word (n.) may have one face it always wears, looking at us; a sentence then is a group portrait whose gazes make it significant.
A Word (n.) glances at us in a context, depending on the surroundings it sits in.
A Word (n.) is understood by logic in the crudest common sense: here is a word, there a mark that only looks like one.
A Word (n.) poses a question exactly like what is a chessman.
A Word (n.) has a soul, which is why some words cannot be replaced; no one thinks a poem unchanged if its words are swapped by convention.