“A great silence comes over me
and I wonder why I ever thought to use language.” – Rumi
for lack of mellow round vowels
that make my mouth drool.
Not for fear of how my small phrases
dwarf to nothing in scatter winds
that shake crabapples in flower.
Not the silence of giving over
to sleep, drink, the first lines
of a play, or talking heads on break.
The silence of those who listen.
That silence that reels in
what the earth speaks
of multitudes that live in mud,
antiquities pummeled into dust,
growth rings in heartwood.
Poet's Notes: There is some irony in being a poet with a voice disability. I have been thinking lately that perhaps the message to me is to listen more, observe. Silence can be a practice.
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