Dear M,
These are Russian woods
that we had visited last summer;
deep and silent
like your pensive stare.
Here we sat
on this bench
bartering our silences –
me, with my poetry,
you, with your art.
Words were but an intrusion,
too rough, too alien,
too constraining, too corrosive.
We spoke with our silences
sheltered from the onslaught of language,
and our silences segued into your art
and oozed out from the brims
of your pensive stare.
The silence of your eyes cuddled
with the summer’s glow,
decanted from the canopy
of the overarching woods,
and nestled cozily
on the edges of my poetry
and in the corners
of your art.
-30-
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