The palm fronds are listening
Because I have something to say.
They fall with a thud, trying to talk back
but my computer is blaring poetry
and I am lost in the noise of the hunting dogs.
When I’m drowning in sorrow
the branches of the trees reach for me.
I walk without a single thought of the ant
asleep inside the daylily
or Mozart’s starling.
When I am most brave,
I look up at the night sky
and it gazes back, waiting for me
to translate its language.
At once I am reminded of Italy
with a lover, all our gestures
spoken without words.
We’d stand up and mime our thoughts
In front of Gods carved from stone
and crumbling buildings.
a language spilling from our flailing arms.