Only silence
This is the picture of silence,
this glow of warmth in the winter air.
The gnarled branches reach out and up,
and I impart them with a questioning
that emanates from within myself.
If these trees had faces,
they would be turned upward –
their lips would be slightly parted,
on the verge of a word,
but only breath would come.
Syllables, utterances –
they’re all too minute
to contain what lies within.
And so,
the shadows of branches
entangle on the wall,
on this little square of orange,
and only silence is here.
this glow of warmth in the winter air.
The gnarled branches reach out and up,
and I impart them with a questioning
that emanates from within myself.
If these trees had faces,
they would be turned upward –
their lips would be slightly parted,
on the verge of a word,
but only breath would come.
Syllables, utterances –
they’re all too minute
to contain what lies within.
And so,
the shadows of branches
entangle on the wall,
on this little square of orange,
and only silence is here.
Beautiful poem. However, it makes my heart feel sadness thinking you must have felt lonely when you wrote it. But sad contemplation, as a passing of time, is acceptable too. EB
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