Sunday, December 07, 2008
She listened, while I said things.
None of them [my things] made sense.
Even to me, truth be known [but it wasn’t].
It [my words] made sense, not.
But she was listening, so on I went.
Out the window, beside her left eyebrow
some geese migrated south. I saw them
but she didn’t, because she listened.
A jet landed. I saw the wheels come out,
and the leaves in that tree turned orange.
[Still she listened] and on, like bees
I droned, making honey.
Flipping a page from October to November
she fixed her gaze on my babble. I missed
not a beat, but many points were lost
and the rain barrel filled with cold water.
White flecks of ice frosted the pane,
and with one breath the chill was gone.
It was not my breath, but hers. In back of it
was the word, “What?”
© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008