Soundless Words
by Odin Roark

Upright center

Mother 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
mother’s sunshine in gray.

Across the room

Cast iron pot boils
collard greens to the ready,
purple beets,
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 tea leaves in waiting,
the silent pleading begins.

Take me.
Take me.
Won’t you please?

Now before me

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

Coming forward

Mother’s tiny hands recoil
a fair warning,
cup’s handle too hot to grasp,
blows fragrant wafts 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 hunger waits for naught.

Around us all

We pick,
choose,
vanquish for the better,
say we,
while habitual prayer
silences the air,
bib-overalled penitence
murmured, then grace..

All is ready

Folded apron dries hands
ladles the bounty,
while outside continuing saber winds
scatter tiny icebound fragments
reminding us of nature’s boundless repertoire.

And so it went

For this youth,
with hidden eyes,
and silent echoes,
through endless seasons
held fast by voices within,
building choruses of soundless words
building for a time…later.