sometimes when silence is ringing about my ears
i imagine you across the river, weaving a tapestry
where a story dances in bright colors—how you sit
working your bones, making them creek
with every last plucking and lacing of the wool
from your mystic flocks. how so these stitches come up
with roughness in your voice, the shining of your
untuned tongue, the one whose deadly pearl teeth
clench as your knuckles bend and break over yarn.

sometimes when silence haunts me for years
i roll up your kindred tale, the one soiled and free
from the bitterness of sour fruits and peach pits
from wounded trees where for truth you seek
refuge in the shade—the delightful singing in the cool
darkness and a sip from a maple leaf as a cup
that God has stricken with crisp rain waters. he pours
them down, watering the grass and trees with His wreath
of flowers adorned with your story, your blanket, and stars.

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