Cars over a mile away on the interstate
like dust whispering.
Pots and dishes being put away
by someone with the kitchen window open.
The dishes want to make noises
that trees growing cannot make
that buds falling or sap forming
on the swelling peony bulbs
cannot make. We are here, they say,
though the seasons are beyond them.
We are still here.
We are here with you.
We are your voice.
Love your voice, Jeff.