Maureen Donatelli


The Conference - Poem by Maureen Donatelli

I wait inside the car,

slouched against blue vinyl

cold, shivering, listening

to a tiny voice from the radio

describe the patterns of wind and snow

embracing this world


when through a veil of light crystals

I witness your conference

a sextet of silence

standing so stark,

dark ponderous druids,

against a white linen field.

Your circumference

a negative design like

giants playing at fairy ring.


I day dream of your roots

hidden below me

tangled and ferocious

an argument of caresses

beneath dark dirt and bones of snow

while above

you stir liquid clouds on high

and higher still with bruised boughs

piercing the grey ceiling,

now heavy with floating language.


What are your secrets, what stories do you share:

gossipy curmugeons on a dreary day or

is it a poem in the making

a song for the wind

a joke about silly women who sit sadly

alone and frozen far below you

in metal cars?


Your passions remain secret, still, quiet

because you know

we, who keep ourselves

locked safely from the world,

can never truly understand

that love is whispered and always present

even in silence.

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Poem Submitted: Friday, December 25, 2009



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