The Silent Man

He mutters to the roof

Things he won't say to me or you,

Shouts them to the heavens

To bright skies stained with blue.

He pockets what he cannot release

And carries it home to fester on with dinner.

I wonder if he will learn to set it down

Or if it will consume him slowly

As the wind erases granite,

Like roots crack apart stone.

He seems long turned bitter

And very accepting of silence

With no energy left to shout or sway

The opinion of any other.

His wife notes that he grows

Harder to love with each passing year,

That he disappears in social gatherings

Away from the faces of friends and

Those with questions.

He carries these quiet thoughts

Down to the duck pond every morning

To whistle tunes of his woes

And speak aloud his troubles.

The ducklings take them, quacking and happy

To eat the bread he offers with them.

And he will harbor this sorrow

As his father did, grandfather did,

And the greats so far back he cannot count.

He will take it to his grave

In death he will mutter to the worms.