GROWTH

I’ve said my piece, but still my mouth is going,
and so my words dry up the conversation.
Like pleasant dandelions, they keep growing,
and turn to weeds through heedless propagation.
You'd think I'd be content to hold my tongue
and lose myself in flaxen ecstasy,
but still these trifling flowers spread among
the tall reeds of her steady empathy.
What forces me to spin my flowery story,
and not let love’s stout stems be all the law?
I’m grasping twigs of loud romantic glory;
I should be dropping roots of quiet awe.
For if I’d stop a moment, I might hear
her, whispering sweet silence in my ear.