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Unspoken Words

                 by Odin Roark

Upright center…

Mother peeled potatoes

Before windows gray of gray,

Between outside fences bent

Over winter’s sequined blight.

Skitter, skitter,

Snow creatures pranced lacework

Atop the snows,

Weaving crystal tapestry

For boredom’s mind-time fun.

Spread before…

Plates once whole,

Chipped ancestry now

Waited patiently the serving

Of her sunshine on gray.

Across the room…

Cast iron boiled

Color-guards to the ready,

Purple beets,

Roots’ deep tendrils,

Spud-white morsels,

Slice,

Slice,

Plop,

Plop,

Dash of this,

Dash of that. 

To the back…

Kettle whistled,

Beckoning near,

Mason jars of leaves in waiting,

The pleading began,

Take me,

Take me,

Won’t you please?

Now before him…

This small boy’s memory recorded

The summer’s much maligned winter gift,

A soldered cup of languid herbal flakes,

Floating anxiously beneath a fragrant steam.

Coming forward…

Mother’s assuaged warning

Recoiled his tiny hands,

From tin-cup handle too hot to grasp,

Urging patience while aromatic wafts

Calmed his mind’s thirst.

To his right… 

Father eyed smoke-dried meat

Beneath last year’s mason jar entombment,

Their strips remaining tall,

Forever brave their resolve

Knowing hunger waits for naught.

Outside their woodland hovel…

The world picked,

Chose,

Hopefully vanquished for the better,

Hope they.

While cowering prayer

Dampened the Cold War air

Bib-overall penitence

Forestalleds anticipated quaking of the quiet.

Ready?

Folded apron dried hands,

Ladled bounty soothed the silence

While saber winds outside,

Begat tiny icebound shards,

Against glass windowed stages,

Nature’s boundless repertory production

Forever performing.

And so it went…

For his youth,

Hidden eyes

And silent echoes,

Survived seemingly endless seasons

Held fast

By voices within

Building choruses

Of soundless words…

Waiting for the now.