In the Silence of this place
When we were very young
We heard voices of lost inoccence
Reverberate in kind
Old houses spoke warning wisdom
Echoed in the mote filled quiet
but...
Deaf to stillness we could not hear
Even if we tried
So becoming
The forgotten strawberry patch
Planted by an exterior wall
Left to grow on our own
Untended, wild, and searching
With fruit already picked and eaten
To kill a mockingbird
Is a sin but,
Shooting blindly in the dark
We hit them all the time
Because we ourselves
Have forgotten
How to fly

12/22/2002

Author's Note: For the literary fun thanks to Harper Lee and A. A. Milne.

Posted on 12/22/2002
Copyright © 2026 Oliver Drewman