Bocelli serenades as I chop pepper and onion,chili's perfume warming from the inside out
even more than the glass of wine.
Vino, I should say, nod to the master
belting out opera in accompaniment
to the simmering pot on the stove.
Can't understand a word,
but he means it, that much anyone can tell,
and it dawns on me that I speak
a language few bother to translate, fewer understand and speak
fluently. I hope the rest enjoy the melody and passion even when they
have no idea what I'm singing.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012
My mother called the other day because she didn't understand one of my poems. I assured her that that was okay, she didn't need to. But it got me to thinking about how little most of us really understand about what anyone's saying, even when we think we're speaking clearly, communicating with exactness.
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