Answer. It's in Pierre, who didn't care, and didn't care, and didn't care. Until he was in the belly of the lion. It's in the acorn, small, into something massive with cultivation. The fingernail dirt from the planting, the dewy toil from weeding, the shelter from the frost. It's in the lip balm, cos let's face it baby, it's cold outside. Hear that gnashing wind? It's in the letters of a loving parent. The sent, the replies, all creation from one visage. It's in the Doohicky. The silence invoked, interpretation all across the board, the brainchild of a brainchild. It's in the polished stones, collections of blue-eyed pack rats. To throw away is to kill. It's on the windowsill, spread out for contemplation, window backdrop, entertainment while hands make mountains of suds below. Sometimes the answers are really in the silence.
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