Listen to this article

Given time, every conversation
ceases: perhaps someone has grasped
the inevitable lurking beyond

the reach of our words. Rocking gently,
our heads nodding like branches
burdened with fruit, we practice

waiting for a reply. In the fields
the locusts grind on, sharpening
the small knives they’re made of.


(Lede photo credit: DomAlberts – Pixabay)