What can it mean when your fingers

go fluttering and your face scurries

along like cloud shadows in the desert

on a rare windy day without a verb for being

anywhere in your grammar of silence?

The rest of us live in a too-noisy

universe, so we watch your dance

of fingers with no inkling of how

such moving grace holds meaning.

We would have to work and work 

to learn your language now. They say

the pattern of grammar for our natal tongues

 is learned in the womb. Complex Japanese

sentence structure or the Spanish object 

that comes before what that act is

are difficult for English-speakers

come late to learning. What shakings

of the womb sea you swam in

prepared you for a bonding

with this earth-bound life we all

share? I do not understand

the harsh gutturals of my own tongue

on angry lips nor do I grasp how love

is passed on by flying fingers that barely

move this earthly air. How can I ever snatch

meaning in the noisy cacophony

of existence even though I have

always held tight to a grammar

that can thoughtlessly say, “I am”?