Each thing I never ask for
(and nonetheless you give)
and everything I never say
(and you, regardless, knowing)
is carved into the absences
between the boughs of trees,
red stars rendered on the sky,
caught up by every breeze.
It's why I do not ask more
(you do not like "what if")
and gently look the other way
from cracks your shell is showing.
So, indirect, through passages
of drifting thoughts like these,
oak, ash, maple, wordless fly,
with only me to tease.
I can't know what you want, nor
how best your spirits lift,
nor anything that does or may
rekindle your heart's glowing.
For all eager responsiveness
and effort made to please
seems a poor and petty try:
each winter you re-freeze.
Iron Noder 2018, 10/30