Just Words (Poetry)

How many times I wonder
have I used these same words
in all their varied combinations? —
and yet they show no sign of wearing thin.

I mentally tip them out of storage
pick them over — arrange
re-arrange shapes to their very best effect.
Take trouble — fuss and fret —
they could be flowers in a vase.

Except they do not wilt or fade —
age as I do — tired — my edges frayed.
Instead they look as good as new —
fresh as paint.

They wait — packed full of latent energy
for someone to unleash them
speak or write
record their patterns — endlessly repeating
black on white.

For without words
all pens and paper
books keyboards human tongues
and telephones
would be redundant — rendered dumb
and love could never find itself a name.