WALK #95

It’s a moment—when leaves begin to fall before winter’s knocks. I feel poignant without knowing about what I feel poignant. I could find out by writing a poem. But it’s enough to know I could find out by writing a poem. For now, I don’t feel like wallowing in sadness or regret—I’ll leave that technique behind to my younger poet self. I write also to leave things unsaid.

[The Hues of Silence]

I've always thought

Color is

Narrative

But nature taught

Color as

Silence