Listen to Matt Donovan read this poem.

But of course there are words
crowding these lines, and words

too couldn’t help but spill
from our mouths that night and fail

to change the silence filling the air.
All I mean is that we wrote words

we needed to say in green marker
on scraps of dissolvable paper

we dropped into a pitcher of water
which seemed like holding still

at the edge of a well before
letting a stone fall into its dark

round space that we knew ended
somewhere below. But this isn’t about

the meagerness of language
or a sound we never heard

while standing at the edge
of a well that wasn’t real. All I mean

is that we placed our words
in the pitcher and waited a bit,

giving the cloudy water a stir
now and then, wanting to be sure

every trace of every green word
was gone before we walked together

across the lawn through that same
silence with our friend who carried

the pitcher to the redbud tree
which had been planted last spring

with her child’s ashes scattered
at its roots and watched her lean down

and, without much ceremony,
pour out the water and our words.

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