On the eighth day she coined the word Poetry
And I savored the syllables, dipped them in silence,
Just so I could remember a time before her.
A time where I didn’t know, and she didn’t tell me.
I threw away an empty box of tea,
The blue label read, Chamomile
A mug sat on the counter, never a chance
To plead half empty
or half full.
She sang without opening her mouth –
A foreign language. And I savored the syllables
But don’t remember what they tasted like.
Something calming perhaps.
Maybe one day I’d be able to speak her tongue.
Then she wouldn’t need to tell me.
I’d find a new box of chamomile,
And savor the syllables.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 1:50 PM UTC
On the eighth day she coined the word Poetry
And I savored the syllables, dipped them in silence,
Just so I could remember a time before her.
A time where I didn’t know, and she didn’t tell me.
I threw away an empty box of tea,
The blue label read, Chamomile
A mug sat on the counter, never a chance
To plead half empty
or half full.
She sang without opening her mouth –
A foreign language. And I savored the syllables
But don’t remember what they tasted like.
Something calming perhaps.
Maybe one day I’d be able to speak her tongue.
Then she wouldn’t need to tell me.
I’d find a new box of chamomile,
And savor the syllables.
