No one prevents me
from saying my piece,
as long as I don’t speak it,
or disturb their dying
in the pursuit of their lives.
As long as I’m not seen
they will all agree,
that whoever he was,
he was agreeable
for having said nothing.
But the world greets me
with conversation,
and endless voices,
mountains constructed from clouds,
the passing of time
by infinite oceans.
Sunsets of amethyst and smoke,
ravines
submerged in spillways of light,
between cliffs wanting to fly.
A world of porches
to sit and greet neighbors,
the moon stopping by
on a hot summer night,
and crowds of stars
partying to dawn.
I’ll stay silent however,
where people are concerned,
and grow geraniums along the drive.
And some will say,
there’s a house
with the blood of roses,
and who lives inside
is a mystery,
perhaps someone
keeping to themselves
being quiet,
with nothing to say.