Lovely piece

The Words Will Come

Wait for it.

Today my voice vibrates
like a clumsy fledgling,
an embarrassment
to its mother.

This shaking voice,
soon to shake the universe
out of its cubicles and cells,
curls in the insipidity of a seed
sown among the crowd
in someone else’s field.

Wait for it.

This voice cracks
while its tall true self
cracks its little lying shell.

While singers flaunt their full-grown sermons,
I tremble as I was told to,
but my grimace hides
my other mouth
smirking.

Beware the seed.
The years will crown it a tree,
and it will outlive you.

Wait for it.

© 2007 Rebecca Haninger

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