Silence

They approach one by one
to light a candle in memory
and even those passing by can’t
bring themselves to speak
and as the light grows only
an occasional sob is heard,
as the crowd steadily builds but

The wind of the night
Swallows their sound

The Path

The path

The Path winds, eternally
grateful for a place to be,
trees to twist around, and
slowly decaying leaves mixed
with browning pine needles that soften
the foot steps of deer

It romps through pine stands and
Climbs a hill dancing through maples,
Swishing with the tall grass in a small field before
Hopping over a bog, stopping to croak with a bull frog

Then all at once, carefully planted
pachysandra edges its sides like emergency lanes
and a sign made of a stick and plain white paper
reads “Trail Ends Here” but nobody told

the path.

Bengal India, Age 11

You squat barefoot
waiting for your little
brother to load slabs of clay
on top of the
rag on his head,
stumbling under the weight
as he brings them over.
You roll the clay in the dust,
fit it in your brick mold,
pound it and, skillfully
cutting the excess off,
knock the brick
out to sun bake before
it’s fired in the kiln,
whose smokestack rises.
And you no longer
notice the foul smell
of the smoke you breathe
fifteen hours of every day.
You knock another brick
among the countless others,
that spread out from you
like a patio but with no
comforts of the home you left
two years ago when your parents
took a five dollar loan
they couldn’t repay.