There are moments, I know, when nothing can be expressed;
no words spoken, aloud. The failure of language becomes completely exposed,
like the maple tree in my front yard,
leafless and cold.
We set such a premium upon the spoken word,
little knowing the history its seen:
Old, black, men on porches
Even, in the pause
and taking in of breath,
silence has its place.
When my silver-tongue ceases to speak
I’ll take my cue from these:
Bound and boundless
can find them.