Her silence rose
Quick as a wall between
My poems and her life;
Nothing, my friend, works.
The very air is like thin paper;
As I speak, the ink
Blotches, the nib
Scratches.
My friend, nothing works.
Sometimes, I feel as if I was
a bricklayer wooing a poet.
2243 12 Nov 2005
Author notes
Written November 18th, 2005
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So short but full to the brim. With so few words you have said so much. Your last stanza is so lovely, it gives me the feeling that no matter how we write our language can only scratch the surface of the depth of what we can feel. Only you could say it so eloquently. I see other meaning wrapped up in this delicate poem, but you don't need me to pick it all apart. I can't think of anything to add or take away that would make this poem any better. Flawless in it's obscurity, striking in it's blatancy. A wonderful piece, hun, as always comes from you.
Best to you,
Sarah
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