Truce

There is something about the quiet in your words
that only time can create, a hush
like the clear wind that dries laundry,
like the sun on a baseball afternoon.

An ease of fit, like a working boot,
a marmalade bite, a lemonade gulp,
the slow path of water to thirsty soil,
the sound of earth as it drinks.

I find that it’s easier now, to listen,
after my ears have grown tired of hearing
unnecessary things,

Maybe I will understand you now, maybe.