I followed the voice of Robert Frost’s ghost into the kitchen where he was reciting The Mountain, but Darrell stood on the other side. The screen door ajar, he was wrapped in the soft glow of early morning, a glint in his eye revealing that his sleepless soul had been stirred. “We can’t in nature grow to many more: That thing takes all the room!” echoed Frost as Darrell met my gaze and thoughtfully chewed on a handful of oats. “The mountain stood there to be pointed at.”
In silence, I read your mouth,
words trapped inside an infinity
our heavy doves.
In silence, you breathe me in deep,
piercing my fire gilt armor
to fill your lungs with my earthly scent,
holding us in.
In silence, our winter lips taste,
soft and slow, swallowing our sensibilities
until we fold into one another to
make time stand still.
In silence, we feel the galaxies
draw close our weathered souls
who seek out their resting place, on
your rock and mine.
In silence, the darkness is our stage
that sets alight our brilliant
rainbows, each the