Little Things

It's the little things, they say, that
build relationships, the thoughtfulness
communicated endless ways from
day to day that says, This person,
you can trust. He'll stick. She'll stay.
The love will grow.

But what of little things quite
opposite? Relentless, minor,
irritating evidence of selfishness
that stains the atmosphere and
leaves a bitter taste, a whiff of
milk gone sour. Do they not tell us
something, too, but what?

Little things become such big
things over time. Enough of those
we love will overcome the things we don't;
the edges of our being can relax
the way of rumpled sheets when smoothed
by grateful hands each morning.

But it doesn't always
happen quite like that.



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015

Silent Heart

It wasn't planned, but this afternoon, I
found myself singing along with my mother
at the piano, a room of her friends joining
in on oldies. This song was just one of them.

I want to write the words
that tell the world what's down
there deep, but deep-down words
cannot be coaxed before their time.
I can read them, but in whispers
never loudly, a breath beyond just
mouthing, pantomime, like shadow
play upon the wall at night.
They're not quite ready to come out
and see the light of day. Until they are,
a hundred poets lend their talent
to interpret, lyricists, the music on the radio.
How do they know what's down
there deep, how do the words
of love songs written long ago
give golden voice to fiery longings of
a silent heart that hasn't learned to speak?



(c) Ellen Gillette, 2015