Cutting Onions in the Quiet

Cutting Onions in the Quiet

Sometimes you go through it
without words, hoping they
overflow gracefully
like a quiet flood
but right now, my lips are stumbling
fingertips fumbling
into a fidget, wondering if you noticed
(up the river, the mountain
melts for March like it’s summer ~
the climatology of chemistry
changed for a core
that’s down-to-earth
and this time, it’s so deep
I can’t even speak)
A poem within a poem:
And to think it all started
without words, but now,
now they are falling
down the page–
how they lust after being written
into white space…
yet
unlike the icecap
i’m not going to sweat it
when the lump in my throat
slows the flow
back into your heart;
I could see the war
of fire and mud
in your glossy brown eyes.
You were a warrior to doubt.
And though the wounds healed,
I fear the scar– just know that
no matter the armor,
no matter how torrential the fleet
I will protect you, I will love you,
now that you
trust me.
~Ty Drescher

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