Some things he won’t say
How the woodsmoke of stoves
on a chilly morning catches
in cobwebs of fog
fluffing redwood and fir
to be split by hawks
or stirred by swarming crows,
then shattered by blue jays
who scold, who disapprove of silence,
who in fact disapprove of him, her, everything.
How she would thrill to the call of thrush
like folksongs of the forest
and she would squeeze his hand a little tighter
sharing the delight. No need to say
but he’s sure somehow she’s near,
she’s watching.
……
First published in Allegro March 2021
photo by Hannah Grace
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