In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Language of Things.”
In the tethered time-capsule of you,
to curl the paintbrush back into your hand,
pointing it due center at the canvas.
to voice the written words of others into your ear,
or pronounce my own words for you.
to sit you down at the table and make your muffins
six cups of flour, no more than a half quart of buttermilk
no sugar or anything raisins can’t confess.
to bring you the songs of yesteryear in me
voicing that voice and singing that sing
finally the roar of conversation, each silver-tongued
or chartreuse spoiled face of those you love,
cataloged in one piece of film
each one tuned in
to the tone of your voice.