By the Time Words Arrive

By the time words arrive
they are far too late: 
meaning has already 
gone to sleep.

I let them enter anyway.
They seem to know
what I do not.

They rest on the table,
beside a cup of cooling tea, 
as though waiting
to be remembered.

Maybe this is what belief is like:
dwelling with what doesn't bother 
to explain itself, finding comfort 
that it will stay.

Outside, 
the wind continues
its unfinished sentence.