We never spoke of children.
We spoke instead of the sunrise,
the time for tea, for morning paper
and toast, warm and buttered.
We never spoke of distant places,
times woven into long fibered ropes.
There was, rather, talk of late morning
and the trimming of hedge and flower bed.
We never spoke of tree snapping storms,
cyclic motion of cloud, lightning thundering
through the bay window overlooking a forgotten cliff.
We spoke of lunch, meeting, somewhere, quickly.
We never spoke of glaciers marching silent,
the hawk circling in high, futile gesture over glazed heights,
the ancient sky quiet, the oldest mountain grumbling in ice.
Now we never speak; this time... is beyond our conversation.
RD Savage
09/22/94
© 1994 by RD Savage