Watcher

I'm meek and shy, and I've always thought of myself as a watcher, but sometimes I don't want to be.

I'm wandering 

on the edge of a white and black, suspended on a liminal plane, a gray

so thin it's become a thread, wavering. 

It's uncertainty,

anxiety, a fear of disturbance that tethers me

back

into the silence. My mouth shuts again.

And my eyes wander slowly from your

face to another.

It's lonely being a watcher. I know,

I hesitate too much. 

It's not unlike me, today to again be seated, wordless

while the geese swarm and squabble on. For a while

I 

also want to be mindless and uncaring and

just speak out, even if it's only to

prove 

the timbre of my voice.