This afternoon,
The silence softly sings,
Its whispering song only for me.

I pull its sound around me selfishly.
This peace, complete, not to be shared,
Since dividing into words would dilute and fragment,

Its sense. Distorting it to parody like a picture,

of snow on a summer’s morning.

So it is a Siren’s song.
Tempting me away from,
Fellowship and compassion,
Making me jagged and suspicious,
Of those who would disturb my singing silence.

Those I should welcome most with,
Open arms, cherish their precious company,

Listen to their tales
About their day

So I must shun,
This sweet, opiate silence,
Embrace again the babbling,
Chaotic cacophony of voices.

Only they seem now,
Not so discordant but combine,
As an earthly choir,
With the heavenly silence,

Still singing in my mind.

But this symphony is not
For the passive.
No listeners are admitted.
I must take up,

A voice and add my own sound,
Which comes back to me like melodic thunder,
An intricate echo with every tone my own.
Sense and thought and words are swept away,

In this torrent stream, worn smooth and rounded,
To be found by future children and excitedly,
Sent skimming across the shining surface.
Sending rippling echoes to unseen beaches.

Where, in the afternoon,
The silence softly sings,
Its whispering song.


One Response to “Afternoons”

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