The silence of things
        that have no voice
no means of expression
        above and beyond
their physical shape
        and characteristics
things so often
        in the backdrop
that we barely notice
        stones in the road
that only occasionally
        cause us to trip

And yet they are
        presence and context
where what we talk of
        takes place or unfolds

Our fascination
        with the moon
and the stars and the sea
        with lakes and rivers
all of which are in
        perpetual motion
and have deep purpose
        and speak volumes to us
on their own terms
        in their own language
devoid of syllables
        but full of sense

And we speculate constantly
        about never-ending things
the chain of life and death
        systolic and diastolic and all
that happens in between

Love should be among
        those never-ending things
and sometimes it is
        but all too often
there comes a sharp speech
        a withering conversation
and the voices dry up
        and love no longer is

John Lyons