When men are mute

Snow flakes land and melt
into a lacrimal trail
flowing voicelessly
along the window pane
as her barefeet tread on wooden
floorboards creak

blades of grass slowly withdraw
from its sencha hued sheath
holding delicately glistening dew beads

while royal blue star-shaped blooms
burst through the granular crust of snow
glory-of-the-snow flaunts her magnificence
in her yearly petalled vernal show

the golden discus stretching its rays
in an early morning yawn, dispensing heat
in a mangoed dawn, on brown shoulders,
legs and feet while little creatures scurry about
their business by the fuzzy grass shores

yooo, yooo, yoo
the wind is howling
as leaves fall en masse
covering a shroud of dying grass
as feathered friends migrate south alas

neighbors are busy going about
raking leaves and chopping wood
getting ready for the cycle of seasons to shift
while women settle in front of the fire to knit

all part of the scheme and design of mice and men
where silence is the sound of everything else
when men are mute.

– Rosana Sam

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