In the Absence of Words

Without new words
it’s a dead place                                though old
words still linger putting
                                in time or overtime
more dust than                 a warm memory

or conversation’s echo                  more
                                water dripping
from a dying eave            before sunshine

sweeps away the rattling             bones
                                                of a summer storm
more the sound of                          paper
                and pen               when we still
did it that way                                   or
                                                stone when stone
was all                   and the events we
                created were as ethereal as
a rainbow            a greeting by      the stream

a jumping fish                    spraying time onto
the roof of another world            another graveyard