Between the Lines

The most important things have no words;
the brilliance of a sunrise; the song of birds.

They aren’t often appreciated as any other;
the hard work of father; the patience of mother.

We expect them to be there and they never fail;
so we neglect them; taking for granted all is well.

Oxygen is invisible and without a sound or taste.
We discount every breath we take that cannot be replaced.

We do not count the seconds, the minutes or the hours
until we arrive at the grave in a hearse full of flowers.

Time creeps up on each of us; stealthily quiet;
it only announces itself as the hair turns white.

The body grows weak and wrinkled and frail
but passage of time is hidden beneath a veil.

Perhaps vowel and consonant sounds are not employed;
in an infants cry; in tears… a new bride sheds in joy.

These important things would seem absurd
if each had to be promptly written down in words

Eliot said he’d measured out his life in coffee spoons
I have measured mine by stars and phases of the moon

My silly lines of poetry mostly go unheard;
though sung by every sunrise and every mockingbird