Silence is a place
many travel there
and do not stay for long
but some travel there
never to be seen again.

She runs from the garden with a tomato worm in her palm
leaving behind a doll, chocolate milk, and banana.

Behind her and thousands of feet above, a green-black
anvil cloud muscles in  from the southwest, close to home;

far from her mind.

The singing
Of Nightingales
Needs no
To translation

Everything has its own language
-the wind, rain, and snow
Animals, the Sun, and the Moon.

But a poet must enter the language of silence
the language behind all songs
and be content to listen-

Listen until the silence reveals itself
and the poet can sing like the wind, rain, and snow,
Animals, the Sun, and the Moon.

When the whispering demons of the morning come calling
When silly , robotic thespians deliver their scripted theatrics with slow motion , foggy angles of the world as rivers of window condensation and sorrow are falling                                                          ­                                                                 ­    Be watchful for songbirds are connected with the mill pond , see the dove at peace with bobwhite songs
Be assured that the wind , the rain and the hardwoods
share pain while celebrating the whim of a cold , methodical yet temporary Earth