Unspoken

A crow wakens me
from a dream that you
found words I wrote in private.
Some groundhog far away
didn’t see his shadow, so
now crows pair off, dancing,
cawing, impressing mates for spring.
I sleep and dream
you found my journals.
I wonder if you read my stream
of consciousness, saw the flying
buttresses and spires of my heart,
sketches drawn on paper, then lost.
I don’t remember where I left them
that you found them,
so many words that I forgot I wrote.
I don’t understand
why you waited until
now, as I’m gathering
my things to leave,
to show me this, or
why my scribbled scraps
are mixed with yours
in wooden boxes,
a page of yours, a page of mine
still in your hand.
Do you care, I wonder.
Did you read them?
Were you annoyed
that somehow my words
fell in here with yours?
You don’t say and
I’m afraid to ask.
Are you as hesitant as I
to beg access to the heart
that played those parts
in other dreams,
that drew those things,
that strung those words?
I wonder what it is
you don’t say out loud.
Then I realize I’m awake
because I hear the crow.

Copyright © 2007 Barbara W. Klaser