When there are no words

to describe the sunset,

a baby's laugh,

a funeral,

a broken heart,

we listen to the hum of love

that courses through leaves and people and mountains and birds.

We listen and try to remember

the time that we knew the words,

and we let the fullness of love's sound

carry us forward to new places.

The picture of bright green trees and yellow flowers

ripples like the surface of an interrupted pond

when viewed through eyes full of tears.

The red clay softens when our tears drop,

and the hawk overhead flies faster toward home.

The pinks and golds of sunset have gone,

but dusk's lingering blue light allows grief to stay a while.

Soon little stars and an almost full white moon will appear,

and the memory of dusk is all that will carry us through night.

"words are futile devices"

when the water boiled,

she steeped her tea and

watched the steam rise along

with her blood pressure,

and she couldn't imagine

going to bed without talking to you

or having that cup of chamomile.

instead, she let her tea pour out

over her hand; she watched the

pink splotches appear,

and there was peace in the pain

while you remained quite silent.

(title is from sufjan stevens lyrics)