If I were to speak plainly
Would the simplicity feel undone?
Do I hide behind flowered words?
Or is that where I breathe?
I pick up the discarded cloaks
And robes that never make the bin,
Arrange them into bouquets
To deliver when I see fit.
But when you knocked on my door
And caught me unaware, I was speechless.
Not ready to receive a visitor without
My blanket of words.
-S. S. Hicks