• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 09

Still Life is Never Still or Silent

Still life, only in the minds
of those with weak imaginations,
for everything has movement and sound,
even if at first glance it seems silent,
without perceptible motion.

Can you hear the music of the guitar
and accordion, how about the whistle
of the kettle, the sound of the rolling pin
thinning what will be fresh bowtie pasta,
boiled in a gurgling pot, not visible,
with a bit of oil sashayed from a bottle
with a festive label.

The grass and tile, yes, one sends sounds
of squish beneath the feet, tile reflects
each tap of heal and toe, showing wear
over the years from daily use.

The chicken, you ask, grunts upon laying,
as I do when hearing the whistle of the steamship
as it's waved away by a couple, oh, yikes,
missed that, as a couple, suitcases in hand
waves to the assembled crowd noise on the dock
as they depart to visit noisy grandchildren
in the new world.

This leaves the trees,
whose leaves rustle in the breeze,
welcoming the dawn purring its way above
the horizon, as a parade of clouds flutes by.


Still Life is Never Still or Silent

So look again, my gentle souls,
even the wood frame oozes appreciation
for the scene, sending a stream
of sparkling notes from its veins.
What was silent is filled with the sounds
of morning joy, or afternoon,
if you'd prefer to think of the sun as setting.