unspoken

i’ll speak of recipes,
autumn tang in the air, the first
yellow strands in the birch-green,
starling songs inappropriately sharp
for the time of the year;
of all small things packed
with the promise of bigness, significant
only because it’s a background
to the elephant not in the room;
i will discuss pottery, maybe, poetry,
probably puttering, stumbling over
the simplest of phrases.
i’ll hide stones in apricots,
bitter-sweet and unknown
to the casual viewer, make
tea and maybe a coffee with milk,
and dispatch veggies lightly to
contain a soup or a salad, to
flavour this world with spices;
i’ll be quiet.
and the memory of lindens
and the fragrant acacia
will have your eyes and your voice.

Screenshot for Road Through The Green Meadow

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