April 12, 2022

naming the silences

The pause at the edge of the water at sunrise, before the birds lift off. An open door 
when the rain stops, its loamy perfume in the air. The wagging finger of a list but instead, 
lemon cake in the oven, a rebellious citrus heat circulating. Cafe neighbors, sugared 
by the relief of gathering again and what it is to be listening beside them, taking small sips
from full mug. When the book is put away and the light turns off and the wait begins 
for sleep. The shuffle through the growing catalog of missed and missing things.
How long it takes for the first daffodil to arrive, and the roughshod prayer when it does.
We’ve spent so much time on specifics, telling ourselves if it has a name, then it exists. 
But consider the moment you forget where you are, exactly, and you stand there,
saturated by a tangled mulch of grief and gladness you will never have the words for.