We only speak in the language of possums
and do not concern ourselves with human affairs.
The westward sun touches the tops of the blossoms
and we talk of nothing as we sit on the porch stairs.
We bask in the fading day's lukewarm heat
and feel nothing, though we keep smiling.
Ghosts of children dance in the street
and sing songs that are almost beguiling.
Indian music floats out of someone's window,
the sweet sounds of a sitar and a tampura.
In the distance the sound of a backhoe
fades out like the setting sun's aura.
I went to the place where they buried Mom's ashes
but could no longer detect where they dug the hole.
A ladybug walks across your upper eyelashes
as the wind bangs a chain against a flagpole.
In the lot next door I see a grasshopper jumping.
The evening clouds begin to turn gray.
I open my mouth and start to say something
but the force of silence buries my words away. - Jeff Barnes
