A spoonful of honey and holy basil,
it’s good for your throat, my mom would say
maybe those years of gulping it down
sticky sweet, trickling down my throat
softened my words at last
blunted the sharpness of my weapons.
Last year, I stuffed my words
into a dark and dank trunk
they grew mouldy and coughed up blood
I am so very ashamed to tell you
I seemed to have always peeked inside the trunk
When I had nothing soft to say.
I let them rise up to my throat
and roll onto my tongue
balancing their heavy weight at the tip of my tongue
I tried, I promise you I did, to taste its shape
But my bitterness stretched its arms in its sleepy slumber
and knocked my desperate words at your feet.
You didn’t hear them, you heard nothing
you let silence overstay its welcome
grow wild in a valley of its own
walk barefoot there if you caan
you will find a basketfull of my words
growing lush alongside wildflowers and ferns.
Months have churned in the great belly of time
now I count my words like change
a teaspoon of honey and holy basil
and a tablespoon of honesty
a dash of kindness and a sprinkle of softness
words sticky sweet, clinging to your ears, collecting in your tongue.