"Where rode the Bird The Silence tied..." ~ Emily Dickinson The angels of silence sculpt themselves into stone. Which of them knows our origins, our multitudes? We put in front of them also our own silences. We don't mention what we've learned— their overlove for immutability; their penchant for cold heights. One day our hands made tatters, and enclosures collapsed. Suddenly, a heaven candled with light.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.