said but not spoken..

I talk to you but you don’t talk back. And so my words get lost.

They break up in the cotton wool clouds that rise sleepy off the morning fields. They tangle in the sluggish pull of the fat flat grey river writhing through the wane of night. They feel dense and thick with all I cannot say and all I say without knowing you hear, the weight of unopened gifts and unread letters.

They are a fog across the hills, a thick velvety darkness, a confusion that knows no bounds or limits so murmurs, unpunctuated.

They seek you in the sky. Lost but still beautiful, potent, waiting.

Words unheard must sometimes still be spoken, so I tolerate their nonsenses like those of little children not yet grown into the fullness of their time.

This is a time of waiting so I wait.

I am making a home, knowing I may have to leave it, knowing this family may never find their way home. But I have brought a house happiness; swept the mountain of mail from the door, dusted corners, brought broom to web and in this alone there is something beautiful.

This quiet little life I have stumbled into is still full of will and wonder, of patience, perseverance. There is poetry in the rising white blank blush of another coat of paint, in the finger touch smooth of a finished walls and the solidity of the clean floor beneath my feet.

I believe in you, in this and I am trusting that you will give this back, give me what I have given.

I have fought for you in thick knots of brambles, bushes that scratch and cut when I try to tame them.  

There is so much to be done and at times I grow a little wild at how much I cannot do, at the margin beyond what is mine to mend, or make or measure.

I rant, rave, rage but all is silent. This simply is what it is.

Here there satisfaction the stillness of the soil. I sink my fingers into it, fresh found, cool with the serenities of what cannot be forgotten. This is not dirt, not muck or mud, but foundation.

I push down bulbs, planting hopes I dream will bloom, praying I will see the spring, here, or in another somewhere that flowers.

This entry was posted in hope, life, love and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to said but not spoken..

  1. There is a voice in your writing, a rhythm that carries the reader forward searching. I think you should write …

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