As in autumn when cooling puffs of wind pluck leaves one by one and send them skittering down the street, so perhaps as well it's true that words fall off and the welded insistence with which a rock once was a "rock" just loses its adhering power.
There is no virtue in it, no advanced plane of understanding, no goal for which to strive. Words just lose their purchase because, in truth, they never really had a hold in the first place. Mind you, they are still useful and sometimes fun or horribly wounding, but there is something to be said for letting words take their leave since they never really had the grasp anyone imputed to them.
Words fall off.
The savvy and fearful may stroke their beards in accord: "Yes, yes ... words are tentative."
But "tentative" is just another word.
It's something to know in some honest way, I think: Words fall off.
Come spring -- in this moment or this one or this one -- they will be back again, gay as pinwheels, to spin and dance and reflect the light.
Rock, rocket, rockslide ...
Rock 'n' roll, dude!