Still Life
I sit
by a dish of light
with darkness at my back.
I throw in words,
flowers of flame; only
the dry, bright ones--
you, remember, once, then--
while I leave the sodden
syllables in a pile--
now, tomorrow, alone, gone--
for nothing
will make them
burn.
We can't speak the tongues
of each other's pain;
still, we huddle in light
and forgive.
~August, 2018
Image: Stilleben mit Blumen, 1908, by Heinrich Kuhn Public domain
