Without The Sound Of Fear
By Erich von Hungen
April 15, 2023
April 15, 2023
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It is all quiet now--
the outside world, the inside too. The wind has pushed itself down close to the foundation of the house. The breeze hangs under the eaves. There is no television. The phones are off. A page turns—a little voice raises its paper sound. You clear your throat. The ice turns in its sleeping as I lift the drink, a high note adding—singing in the quiet. The heater blows. The refrigerator breathes through it. The cracker crumbles and breaks up flavor. I close my eyes and there is softness forever-- sighing, settling in. You shift your feet. The slippers whisper-- I understand them clearly. My chair creaks as I get up to make a drink for you. The mantel clock ticks, and we realize, we never listened to it, though its always there, always has been—under everything. The house stretches, clicks, creaks, relaxes. And this, all this together, is the sound-- the love song—confident, the love song—true. I throw you a kiss. You catch it in your smile-- love without the sound of fear singing in the quiet. |
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Erich von Hungen is a writer from San Francisco, California. His writing has appeared in The Colorado Quarterly, The Write Launch, Versification, Green Ink Press, The Hyacinth Review, Ink Drinkers, Amethyst Review and others. He has written four collections of poems. The most recent is "Bleeding Through: 72 Poems Of Man In Nature". Find him on Twitter @poetryforce.
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