If you were going to open up a shop, what would you sell?
I scatter stanzas into cups,
let verses steep where silence sips—
a gentle line along the rim
to meet the lips of morning.
A plate holds poems soft and bright,
a dish for dreams, a bite of light.
Each word, a seed, each line, a thread,
from things I’ve felt, or wished, or said.
In plaques, I press the weight of thought—
small truths that living time has taught.
A paper note, a whispered plea,
the quiet craft of setting free.
These fragments form a quiet whole:
a map in ink, a glimpse of soul.
Collected now, for eyes to see—
the gathered, gifted
pieces of me.
The Writings of Felina Silver 
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