What you decide not to sayyou forget how to say,and what moved you is exhaled, but left unsaid Might I be deadbefore the unsaid is allowed to breathebefore I may grieveAnd then when the words are heardor perhaps are read,perhaps simple dates or facts may hurtsomeone still living inside unsaid,holding their breathMemories of the deadContinue reading “Arriving with Pansies”
Chris Bevens | pedalpoet 