Whipped by cyclonic whirls, dry wintered oak leaves,
became stuck between the floorboards of my deck,
standing straight up like an array of multi-armed men
sending semaphore signals to unknown observers.
Signals going where? Hard to know, there’s no clue.

Do our messages resonate what they were meant to be?
Our words, when well defined are simple,
but ‘Love’ is not, as hate is sad and simple,
‘Love’ is wildly variable,
when you say ‘I Love You’ what do you mean?

When you say it to your father, who ‘d beaten you,
to your mother you secretly hate, they’re white lies
But when they age, your youthful anger fades,
you begin to understand them, no longer is love a lie.

The oak leaves that signal get eaten, decay,
belay the obscurities, so much we don’t understand,
We too decay, all we’ve said no matter how profound
is crowded out by the tumble of all new sound,
obscure waving gestures by stuck leaves, and…… !

Why don’t we talk with our hands like Italians do.
Kent Bowker
April 4, 2017