Silenced by sorrow, I didn’t know what to do
except patiently work—in silence—for you.
Silenced by sorrow and no longer brave,
I used what I had—which indifferently they gave.
They were oblivious to me—
silent and speaking only in poetry—
by which you knew—and know me.
Sorrowful, but not silent, the poetry
waits to seize upon a phrase
slightly less sorrowful than these last few days.
Silent before you, my sorrow
hopes to speak without poetry tomorrow.