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.
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
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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