Tenderly the SilenceWere it not for the winged ones, borne on soft energies,
the gentle notes of men so rarely harmonious,
a thunderous roll into the heavens, a tender drop
followed by many more of a Spring rain,
I believe, I could live laying on a bed of grass,
eyes turned to an infinity so quiet, so stern.
Were it not for the dancing ones, scented by angels,
the colossal sequoia flowing with sappy dew,
and a friend in the soil of this dear Earth aging,
perfumed of Everest and Mont Blanc giants,
knowing far too well, reclining on a throne of marble,
I will survive on the souvenirs of a dying rose.
Were it not for the madness of a starry night,
the melting watches in sharp monotones ,
a first for a mountain in the south of France,
fabricated in a manufacture of cubes and triangles,
I doubt not, attempting the ascent of an odd staircase,
prisoner of a dimension too many, death will not be mine.
Were it not for the mousse of cocoa bean and berries,
a cherry in an alcove of fluffy cream of white and snow,
the hot nectar in a marriage of exotic herbs and milk,
and perhaps the teasing bubbles of a monk’s error,
I am quiet sure, finding nourishment the morrow,
today and the next, this life will pursue its course.
You may clip my wings, anchor my quill to the rock,
burn my soft shell to the torrid sun of all the Saharas;
pray do lower my sails, extinguish the breath of time,
perhaps even sever this head mine you believe weary,
know that silent in your room, you have set me free,
for my world exists, far from here, deep inside, safe.
Copyright © 2016 Fabrice Poussin
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University, Rome, Georgia. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and more than two dozen other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River magazine and more than seventy other publications.