Are they fruitless things
these words that
define my time;
piles and piles of them
sitting, waiting?

Is it a fruitless thing
my ongoing life
I pledge to thee?
All I've done and known
is there
piled quietly.

And I wonder, this morning,
as the sun outside
climbs in my window
and warms the room

what I am doing with them
adding, merely adding
to experience to write of
and express
as best I can?

Are they worthless things
these things, these reams
that I make with my quiet hand?
your quiet compulsion?

I cannot know
and trust I have to learn;
and so go on 
feeding them
with my life, your breath.

Only you know the ripening 
of your own fruit;
when they be sweet
ready to pick and eat.
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