Unspoken Words
by Odin Roark

Upright center…

Mother peeled potatoes
Before windows gray of gray,
Between outside fences bent
Over winter’s sequined blight.

Skitter, skitter,
Snow creatures pranced lacework
Atop the snows,
Weaving crystal tapestry
For boredom’s mind-time fun.

Spread before…

Plates once whole,
Chipped ancestry now
Waited patiently the serving
Of her sunshine on gray.

Across the room…

Cast iron boiled
Color-guards to the ready,
Purple beets,
Roots’ deep tendrils,
Spud-white morsels,
Slice,
Slice,
Plop,
Plop,
Dash of this,
Dash of that.

To the back…

Kettle whistled,
Beckoning near,
Mason jars of leaves in waiting,
The pleading began,
Take me,
Take me,
Won’t you please?

Now before him…

This small boy’s memory recorded
The summer’s much maligned winter gift,
A soldered cup of languid herbal flakes,
Floating anxiously beneath a fragrant steam.

Coming forward…

Mother’s assuaged warning
Recoiled his tiny hands,
From tin-cup handle too hot to grasp,
Urging patience while aromatic wafts
Calmed his mind’s thirst.

To his right…

Father eyed smoke-dried meat
Beneath last year’s mason jar entombment,
Their strips remaining tall,
Forever brave their resolve
Knowing hunger waits for naught.

Outside their woodland hovel…

The world picked,
Chose,
Hopefully vanquished for the better,
Hope they.

While cowering prayer
Dampened the Cold War air
Bib-overall penitence
Forestalleds anticipated quaking of the quiet.

Ready?

Folded apron dried hands,
Ladled bounty soothed the silence
While saber winds outside,
Begat tiny icebound shards,
Against glass windowed stages,
Nature’s boundless repertory production
Forever performing.

And so it went…

For his youth,
Hidden eyes
And silent echoes,
Survived seemingly endless seasons
Held fast
By voices within
Building choruses
Of soundless words…

Waiting for the now.