He talks.
She smiles.
He asks all of the obligatory questions.
She answers,
laughing through the formality.
He persists in the silence,
not letting it take a hold.
She fidgets,
more comfortable with the silence
than the task of answering meaningless inquiries.
He watches her movements
as she watches his.
neither know what is true.
Finding the right words to say—
do they collect on your tongue
like dew in the early morning,
pale and sweet
or are they like young jewelweed pods,
exploding under the most subtle touch?
Your words slip into nearby ears—
planting themselves deep
to grow into live oaks
with strong branches and soft moss.
I want to speak flowering words
that sprout black-eyed susans in people’s hearts
and english ivy in their minds—
to yield the power of a thousand daisies
in each word I confess.
Shall I try to grow a dandelion in the crook of your smile?
So It Goes 