Sometimes,When many words seem to roll around the brink
And one wonders which will fall out and be lost—
Which will tip inside and kept as treasure,
I’m afraid to push upon the words
They may crush themselves
Or burden the Spirit of another and my own.
Words and hot tea,
Either given or taken in a rush may burn
To burn away some of taste forever.
There is more to singing than our voices
And more to knowing than our words
And more to love than touch.
I should pause to listen
While smaller voices whisper still.
Few know how to touch anymore.
Few know how