your words

your words
tread on me
with the softness
of tiny happy feet,
playing around in slush,
or sometimes
like a generous
trickle of honey
enjoying
its own slowness,
sometimes
like that telling strike
of metal
upon a parched earth,
calling forth
the lushness
of an underground spring
hidden from all eyes,
and sometimes
they simply wash over me
with the suddenness
of a wave caught
by a half-awake shore,
and often stay with me
like little pools
of freshness
that I can dip into
with my tired eyes
and ears.