the poetry of Charles Fry

3 June 1995

so, you say that i do not speak

well, so be it.
but won't you Listen to me any way?
hear the air rustling in the empty seat next to me.
hear the paint cracking off of the park bench underneath me.
hear the sun shining on my parted lips (which yearn to speak, but are afraid).
hear the blackbird singing from its nest within my eye.
Look, oh please look and see
these tender words i dare not speak.
come sit next to me and i will point to distant dreams.
take my hand, lead me to a new bench and i will nod in grateful joy.
gently touch my parted lips and i will whisper from my soul.
search my frightened eyes and you will see a broken wing.
Then, then you will know why it is that i do not speak.

Copyright © 1995 Charles Fry