We each own a favorite word.
But my word is a deep secret
that I will not admit aloud
and have written many times.
(There are yet secret words
in my public writing life.)
Words have grace like dance
but we give them both away
far too often, and so freely.
Are you a dancer if you only go
with your matched dance partner?
Is it the woman of words
or she who hides them away
that thinks better of the word?
Will this word still have power
when I someday use it, allow it
to be alive, not just pondered?
I say still, as if it has been.
I have spoken love, and strange
and wonderful and many others,
but this word lays (lies?) in
ceremonial state, waiting for
the right moment to be donned.
Reserved not for a celebration;
quiet is the word to quiet us.
To whisper breath over coals
is still to light the fires.
Oh, my word is a deep secret
that I long someday to reveal.
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