Listen to Matt Donovan read this poem.
But of course there are words
crowding these lines, and words
too couldn’t help but spill
from our mouths that night and fail
to change the silence filling the air.
All I mean is that we wrote words
we needed to say in green marker
on scraps of dissolvable paper
we dropped into a pitcher of water
which seemed like holding still
at the edge of a well before
letting a stone fall into its dark
round space that we knew ended
somewhere below. But this isn’t about
the meagerness of language
or a sound we never heard
while standing at the edge
of a well that wasn’t real. All I mean
is that we placed our words
in the pitcher and waited a bit,
giving the cloudy water a stir
now and then, wanting to be sure
every trace of every green word
was gone before we walked together
across the lawn through that same
silence with our friend who carried
the pitcher to the redbud tree
which had been planted last spring
with her child’s ashes scattered
at its roots and watched her lean down
and, without much ceremony,
pour out the water and our words.