It Comes of Late

It comes of late  

I find myself

turning words over

onto their sides

a whole lot more

than I have before.

Mostly to let their

meanings drip out

from their depths - 

all their cadences and 

timbres, their syncopations

and accents, all their

connotations and denotations

like honey rolling out

and onto all of the 

surfaces of life.  It’s

an even-tempered

forbearance and

serenity built on hope. 

I’ll turn them again

sometimes

so their tops are

upside down like

ice cube trays in

the warming air

releasing all they 

have left to give - 

getting out every

last drop. 

A life like this takes

some time to live.  I

can only hope God is

big enough 

to understand and

patient enough to

wait for my meanings

slowly to escape.