Harry Handelbar 
When life gives you silence, plant wheat, drop feathers, and serve breakfast with existential ripples.
From the silence of caution
To the silence of fear
Of the tiniest portion
And to death drawing near
From today meets tomorrow
To a half-muted boast
From a tale full of sorrow
To a fried egg on toast
In a crowd and its awe
And in thunder delayed
There are feelings too raw
There are thoughts that won’t fade
For a U-turn mistaken
And a soul led astray
And a heart that is achin’
For the one gone away
From a small speck of dust
To a downpour of rain
With a great deal of trust
Comes a handful of grain
Silence isn’t empty. It’s curated. It arrives in flavors—some bitter, some brave, some shaped like toast. I’ve heard silences that thunder, and silences that tiptoe. Some come dressed as regret, others as restraint. A catalogue of hush: the kind that follows a boast, a breakup, or a badly worded email. The kind that lingers in dust, clay, and the spaces we forget to fill.
