silence, pours rich
must be groomed and pampered
and nurtured into corners
before it settles between us,
an awkward piece of useless
furniture, too big for our small room
the heavy rain cheats
the canopy of leaves
drumming each one on the way down
in the sudden syncopation of cloudburst.
here on the forest floor, it doesn't matter much to us,
hunched low and following the vines,
the runs of pheasant,
the paths of field mice.
there is no serenity
within this sin,
of two souls crackling over ice.
beneath our bleary eyes,
and our deadpan rigor smiles,
hope still flutters
as green helicopter seeds
fall to the ground at our shoes
mocking us with their fertility.