Maybe words are leaves
     and  grow  from
the  trees  inside  me.
If I stand beneath them
   and shake them
free,
you might praise me
for the piles  I  pick up
     and collect,
but   you,   my  love,
    planted  them
    inside  me.
You  watered  them
    with your tears
  and sang to them
with  your  laughter.
I may shake the words,
           but you
     are the sunlight
       that lets them
             grow.
                                                                                             Jon York   2019