carved into wood
and grain,
listened to-
he chiseled nouns
and adjectives with careful choosing
plaques of them
resonated into rings,
and thoughtfulness
inclined on the bias,
mitred corners slip inside my head
wonders of what/when/how
auricular components and visionless patina
fall on the edge of reason:
sit up, take stock
of realities and kinder portions
towards man, friend and family.
The tones in his voice are:
the essence of sharing
of food and love.
nurtures manna on my morningtime
moments; like the touch to a child
tender strokes of hair on foreheads.
Subtle sounds follow synapses
expanding the open/mind.
Not cliched-said-before
in his way, newness is vivid
like a rough sketch
waiting for ink & colour.
Compassion thrives from ancient tongues
and present-day stories,
He, is the psalm
of my Book of Days.
The narrative of my waiting
sits where pages turn to palms.
Flex like the willow of his eye;
to see what he sees
inhale the day/night of seers,
parables of plenty
bring labours forth,
where fruited trees
are plucked from.
I am still hungry
still, in-need
to swallow/digest/eat
pray for the thankful parts
that are served,
on silver platters
or a soup bowl
made of wood.
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