Thursday, December 6, 2007

Poem: Tim J Brennan

Things Unsaid

after hours in a museum are as quiet
as the framed painting of three red chairs--
which once, you imagine, were occupied
by people laughing at each other’s humor.

that the lake of your father’s mind
must be lovely and quiet,
with small sunfish nibbling
delightfully at its surface.

the air above your sleeping
son’s head is as holy as the rain
outside his open window.

that nothing is perfect, not even
if the next person you meet
may be the only one you’ll ever have
a chance to be in love with.

the coming snow will make
so little noise while falling.

it is nearly midnight in October in Minnesota.

many of its small towns are left with fallen leaves.

* * * * *

~ Tim Brennan is a regular contributer at Elegant Thorn. You can find more of his fine work in the archives.

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