The Mark of Silence

For some reason it is the old, the abandoned, the survivors
that sing to me as I walk this earth.
The mining shack on the precipice.
The old man playing chess alone in the part.
The child in their own world while grownups natter among themselves.
They sing to you. Kindred souls,
worn, finding their way in a world that has left them by,
things and people who survive enough to make a mark
in their silence, in a noisy world.

About this poem.

I was always content to be the silent one. Mostly, I still am.

The picture taken at a nearby slate quarry in my town of West Pawlet, VT.

Tom