Silhouettes Don'T Speak
The way the light hits the ground
leads to the sudden appearance
of shadows upon your frame,
and your wisps of white hair
are made whiter by the sunlight.
I stare at your silhouette,
realizing that the more years go by,
the more of a shadow
you are becoming to me.
We are distanced by generations,
browbeaten by past mistakes
and family secrets.
You've learned to keep your words safe
in the womb of your mouth,
occasionally making use
of the rolling "r"s
of your native tongue.
But,
we are also connected by
the language of poetry and ink stains
that courses deep through our veins,
by the Navajo stories I still see
etched in the corner of your eyes,
by the withered hands that have
forgotten how to use a pen.
And yet, it is not enough
to have you sitting so silently.
And yes, I crave more.
So I walk towards you now, and
reach for your hand.
Silhouettes don't speak,
and I don't intend them to,
but they are always there
to listen.
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