Picking Up Shiny Things

perils of conversation

It is an evening in midsummer.
There is an improbable sky unfurled above us
and the end of daylight is paused behind a stand of cedars.
We have come to that point where words are useless.
They would only slip from our lips, flutter in the still air
and land like false snow in parched drifts.
And if one got caught, say, on your lashes,
a word like never or remember, then I might forget
the ravine at the edge of the yard or recall
your hand low on my back, the force
in counterpoint to your whisper, to and fro.
I might reach to brush it, that quivering word,
and you might catch my hand and bring it to your lips.
But the sun slips in silence,
the night rises like a predictable flood
and I watch your silhouette
as you step into the rift
without a sound.