More Than Words

—Nick Butterfield

When was it
With the smell of baking bread
I became the bread.
Why was it,
in my weakness I became strong
and in my humor, I became the clown
Where were you
still, inside me when
love became a verb.
What was I doing when
the storyteller became the story
and the healer healed.
I’m not sure what I was doing
when I became the poem.
It’s coming back to me now…

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