Let's consider

 a blue umbrella's relationship to early evening.  It is not a conversation of silence.  

Silence

enters the percussive. Re-reading Chiyo-ni. Sipping tea.  Remembering last night's jazz.  
 

Unsheathed

It's a process. A practice. A promise of spring. As sensual as falling snow but not as silent. By the way, unsheathing happends daily in the kitchen, and everytime a poem writes itself.

Some bells ring to a different timbre

Silence is a blessed parcel of time.  A gift of the journey inward.  Like the meditation of cooking.  Or writing one word then the next not knowing when a period might manifest.  

Magnum Opus. How does one recognize a poetic magnum opus?

The same as with a fine (and finely crafted) meal. The bowl again becomes empty. Perhaps an intake of breath at the first and last bites.

Silence.

Iteration. In poetry what is the one sound that needs to be iterated?

silence

In the enjoyment of a meal, there are 3 such sounds?

laughter
the word "yes"
snores from the big, beautiful cat

How much is too much explication?

Explication is a tried/true way to dissect craft and measure underpinnings & conveyance of a poem.

I prefer savoring whole cloth, slow disrobing of inexplicable silence.




Which foods slowly disrobe taste? Try squash soup – satiny, savory.

Are words the carapace of silence?

....Perhaps.


Regarding food and silence, sipping green tea comes closest, I think. What falls away, leaves.