I heard that I might

regret the words that I wrote

and the songs that I speak

through my poems.

Be careful,

they said,

don’t tread the water,

the ripples

may hurt

an old soul.

 

Yet, then

I heard silence

from the speakers

as the phone

never rang.

 

I’ve learned

the power of words;

my healing heart

whispers

each one back to me,

cradling the vowels.

 

I’ve cried on this

apartment floor;

and the one before that,

the one before that.

Words have always

stuck out their hands

and plucked me

from the carpet:

 

Yes.

 

How, then,

can I regret

grabbing hold of their clasp,

sweeping myself away

in the swirl

fluster

spin

and fire

of my song?

 

No.

 

These words

are me.

 

No one

can regret

healing

one’s own

heart

with their song.