Words

Let me not hasten words, as wind the leaves
Of fretful autumn’s dissipating dither,
Which all the rains of spring, and breath he breathes,
Fail utterly to wake or make un-wither.
May buds that burgeon out from tender reaching,
Rooted deep in thoughts that take their time
Ripen most from patience’ trammels teaching
Tendrils surely, slowly, how to climb.
Let me hold them high to heaven’s light,
Await the warmth of summer’s sun-sap sweet,
And not till blossom-bursts with scent ignite
Adventure out to offer them complete.
May all my words to you in dew-joy glisten,
Bathing in the time it takes to listen.