Wait, my heart, to speak.
Words need be holy things sprung
from deep-laid seeds of thought
to bring fair harvest.
Wait! Listen! The healing word
gains power in silent knowing,
where fond belief,
windblown awhile on summer air
in charming sounds
and shapes
of evanescent dreams,
must shrivel in the scorch of noonday sun,
its voice become the rustle of dry reeds
and hollow pods.
Listen, my heart. Garner thoughts from God,
as earth receives the long and gentle rain
that penetrates the crust
and finds its way to thirsting roots.
And when you are a watered garden—
speak!
And when your ripening branch bends low—
speak!
