Sonnet 4/28

Let me not to my love speak words aloud,
nor give my voice to agitations.
My heart is a muted muscle allowed
no sounds aside from its resignation.

Instead, I scratch my weakling's words across
the paper-maker's very cheapest leaf,
like a riddler's chickens skitter across
the frosty road most traveled in my sleep.

And yet, when bare you lay the secrets of
your heart, how do you make them plain to me?
Letters by the hand I have come to love
in the language particular to thee.

My love is no error. This you have proved.
Words written, not spoken, can be just as true.