Poetry has a silent power 

In the way that poets 

don’t need words to communicate 

With one another; 

We simply see a wildflower 

Sprouting from a chip in concrete, 

Or the sky 

Smattered with stars, 

Or a tree branch 

Coiled with winter lights, 

And our eyes shimmer; 

Our breaths lengthen,

Our lungs blossoming with each one,

The corners of our lips turning up

Until we reach into our bags

To pull out a pen

And start scrawling

On whatever paper we have

Crumpled into our pockets;

As we write,

We can watch one another’s eyes flick

Subtly up towards the sun,

And feel our hearts 

Being handed a gift

By the raw veins of another,

And within creases of the wrapping,

We are given all the words

A poem contains,

Plus every one that cannot fit;

We do this all silently,

Cupping the world in our palms,

Tilting it towards the sun

Along with our own subtle glances.

"Ew, you're being so gay."

So being gay is illegal now?

"Dude, stop faking it."

Do you want me to change?

"What happened to you to make you feel this way? It must have been awful."

Should I lie to everyone now?

"With enough therapy and religion, you'll be normal again."

Do I really need therapy?

"You're going to hell."

Am I a bad person now?

"You don't look gay."

I'm supposed to change how I look now?

"I can change you."

How?

"You just haven't had the right sex yet."

When will I?

"You probably have HIV."

What is that?

Autumn, she is melancholy. The wind in the trees is louder, the leaves gone and withered, leaving less privacy for the forest. They must share their secrets through roots now, but the one who roams the world with golden eyes can see beneath their canopies. As days get short and nights get long, she has less need for spoken word, drawing in the colors of summer and fall to savor until they come again. She ventures underground, speaking to the worms and bugs, asking the frogs if they’ve found good spots for hibernating. Alas! she cannot join, for this life requires her presence, and she makes do with blankets and early nights. How futile her fantasy burns, of resting her mind for a while, of long walks under the whispering trees, of making sure she has a safe place to hide. Is it a fit of folly to want to turn in with the earth as it all

Slows

Down?