He spoke not a word,
had nothing to say,
as we went out to work each day.
Yet he said it all,
revealed to me his mind,
that he was wise and humble and kind.
He spoke to me in riddles,
in sunsets and storms,
in billowing winds and still other forms.
We conversed in new born kittens,
using fresh mown hay,
and watching the birds so hard in their play.
The delight of a raindrop,
the rush of the wave,
filling a creek bed that snow melt gave.
In smelling the air,
odors both subtle and gross,
the churnings of nature that he loved the most.
And when the day was over,
he told me good night,
the only words spoken, made the day just right.
Copyright 2014, John Paul Mueller