thoughtfulWordlessness
is not silence,
the sun on my face
as the wind stirs the pines,
and the stream burbles down
in snow melt time.
Somewhere a robin sings,
and a dove mourns,
and a bumblebee
explores my blue shirt.
The dirt,
powdery and granular both,
falls through my fingers,
and the scent of pine pitch,
and old smoke
and wet earth
swirl around me.
So much said
in the few moments I wait for you,
saying nothing.
Part of me is glad you have come,
but part of me hungers for that unsilent silence,
even as you walk up smiling
and shatter the moment.
