A Poem for My Friend the Writer

Friends of the Season

The best sounds are
songs of quiet.
The empty echoes of the sun
melting blue ice sky.
The glide of geese; down
bellies overhead. You
follow; breathless gazing.

Ghosts shiver from feelings
with no one to name them.
They sit in your pockets
and brush against your skin.
Your mouth agape,
releasing the chill of wisdom,
a fog of breath
the only thing you can whisper.

And you agree with it all.
The sun and its melting.
The geese and the silent
wind of feathers.
You agree
with the chill up your spine
saying, “Quiet.”

And the moment passes

through your jacket
sleeves and under your collar.
And there is no need to say,
“Take me with you.”

4 thoughts on “A Poem for My Friend the Writer

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