On the Days of Taciturn

You’re verbose

when you’re laconic.

Your silence

like the crunch of

boot-on-grass,

in late November frost, foliage

swept away

by gust and rake;

or stacking

gilded dishes

once they’re dried,

the clonk on cupboard

shelves.

Silence isn’t gold

it is a pyrite,

the shine in a

prospector’s

pan, the fool

who thinks he’s rich

once all the grit’s

been sieved away.

You say much more

when your lips are

closed and curved,

arched just like a

rainbow

void of colour.

I recollect the

circus as a kid, the clown

who bore a flower

and a frown,

how he never

spoke a word

throughout the show,

plucking every petal—

like a tree

uncoupling leaves

of aureate,

never even voicing

fare thee well,

thank you for your

splendour and your shine,

your mimicry of Sol

when it went cold,

rigid through its loss

of cloak and love,

like the Winter

nights that followed,

your slumber

on a couch

without a cushion,

naked

on its wood

of hinted rage.

Andreas Gripp

August 14, 2025

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