Gifts

I grow everything I can
bushels of words
smoothed into shapes
with gilt edges
pile up in corners
waiting for someone
for someone’s hand
for an eye, an ear
a heart to hold them.

Gifts cannot be themselves
until someone receives them.

Receive me then
in the shush of small words
in the interlocking forms
in the bound words
in the gagged words
in the words only you hear
in the shape of love
in the tilt of differences
in the final melting into One.

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About janemwoodman

Singer, writer, restaurant reviewer, urban farmer, devoted lover of my husband....old and getting happier all the time.
This entry was posted in Free verse, Patience, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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