Silence spreads in wide
sheer layers above
shorn fields,
or gathers
in sheltered corners
of the barn
as the farmer
finishes milking.
The little sounds--
the rustling straw,
the white milk shooting
into the silver pail,
the muted voice--
find place in silence,
become each distinct
and, somehow, devout.
In town, silence
rests in night-dark
sanctuary windows,
figuring, dimly, pictures
soon to blaze
when morning trumpets
"Glory!"
The little sounds, the muted voice, the silence -- this poem is a beautiful quiet splendor. Thank you for this poem, and for the other poems you have posted of late!
ReplyDeleteYou are very welcome, Thomas! And thank you for enjoying them! Poems come especially alive when they stop belonging to just the author.
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