Tuesday, December 13, 2016

rose-bowl dust

Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
--T.S. Eliot, "Burnt Norton"

Surely, God is in this quiet.
A silence falls upon us, as we rustle into place like autumn.
The silence fills with Eliot and Spirit,
growing with each stanza, each breath.
Restless hands and hearts sink into the silence
and the peace--
God--
so much peace descends upon us.
Not a worldly, global peace,
not the peace of justice,
a peace of just us.
This is the fruitful kind of quiet,
throbbing with creative thought,
words bursting through the air,
phrases wafting through the stillness.
This is the sort of silence
in which you hear your heart beat,
thumping against your ribcage,
pulsing with creative force,
keeping you alive, and enjoying it, too.
your heart is bursting.
It might one day burst out of you--
you cannot contain it.
This is the sort of silence that makes you want to reach for a pen,
but you cannot contain this in a pen.
The silence is so beautiful, you can't move,
as you grasp for it, reach to crystallize it,
it slips through, billowing beyond your reach.
Laughter is the asymptote of this silence.
Laughter climbs to the Joy of this silence,
we laugh until we reach this peace, together,
where our joy is complete in wordless eternity.

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