..and I drop the small pebbles of my notes
in cursive, words are writ of the silent-things
I never utter in the frown-of-day
on the surface of the lake


1.
soft touches from the fingers of a southern wind
offers some surprise in the falling
orange-orbs in the sky come tumbling down
from the shaking sky
there's no time to run - - keep still, oh *keep still
closer they come
and yet closer, they whizz by

close your eyes, they will pass
they will come, yes
but they will
pass

close your eyes


2.
have no fear
we are here
you've seen it and it took you a while
to understand
(we've been told to expect you)


3.
when she said the things with shaky-hand on your lake
it was right there.. beneath the surface, half a ripple away
she did not know
you could have put out your hand, even fingertips
to touch
you never did.. so, she never knew
didn't delve on
you kept silent (as you are now)


4.
how do you know the pines trees did not whistle sighs
at your temerity to keep silent..
or were you rendered almost insensate?

and surprise..above it all, the eagle flew.. saw
concrete patterns on the ground
but couldn't speak
it swooped down low and flapped on bold, so loud
and the surface of the forest-floor went crunch beneath..
approaching-steps


but how could anyone know
when brilliance lay right there.. half-frozen
below the surface of beginnings
a mere fraction away from
you..



S T - 17 feb 2014