What will be found When all the words Needed are spoken Without broken tongues, Lisping fear filled air? What then? When, Soaked in sweat of honest prayer After all the raking of words, Piled as autumn leaves Between our feet, We stand facing each other. What then? Bag the leaves, Clear away the broken stems Between us? Or leave them piled To swirl up Around and between us, Ever present? But what would be the point Of letting words fall then? Surely nature, left to its devices, would Clear the pile away In its own time and way. Then we would know a spring, Feeling the blood stir, Moving within our veins.