Remembering Silent Words
by Odin Roark

Through the window of time,
long ago upright center…

She peels potatoes
before windows gray of gray,
between outside fences bent
over winter's sequined blight.

Skitter, Skitter

Snow creatures prance lacework
upon the snows,
weaving crystal tapestry
for boredom's mind-time fun.

Spread before

Plates once whole,
chipped ancestry now,
wait patiently to serve
our sunshine in gray.

Across the room

Cast iron boils
color guard to the ready,
purple beets,
green roots aplenty,
ready spud white morsels,
slice,
slice,
plop,
plop,
dash of this,
dash of that.

To the back

The kettle whistles,
beckoning near mason jars of leaves in waiting.

The surreal pleading begins.

Take me.
Take me.
Won't you please?

Now before me

Soldered cup of languid herbal flakes,
summer's much maligned gifts
float anxiously
beneath the steam.

Coming forward

Mother's assuaged warning
recoils tiny hands,
tin handle too hot to grasp,
fragrant smiles waft to calm the thirst.

To my right

Father eyes smoke-dried meat
beneath more mason jar entombment,
their strips remaining tall,
forever brave their resolve,
knowing winter hunger waits for naught.

Around us all

We pick
We choose
We vanquish for the better,
while cowering prayer
silences the air,
bib-overalled penitence
foretells quaking quiet.

All is ready

Folded apron-dried hands,
ladles the bounty.

Continuing outside,
saber winds beget tiny icebound shards
through glass windowed stages,
nature's boundless repertoire.

And so it goes
for yesterday’s youth,
whose hidden eyes
and silent echoes,
through endless seasons
hold fast by voices within,
that continue building choruses
of silent words.