poetry by j matthew waters

late august

to you I can tell nothing
and so I sit & listen for the wind
to bring me something new

if the silence were a shadow
and you retreated
for a time
I would then speak whenever
the sun allowed me to

in the late evening
the sounds of the day
reinvent themselves intensely
—a language all their own
you saying nothing as I
listen for clues

august two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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