Silence

In the noisiest era since time began

there are yet ways to be still and quiet-

to say a hushed grace before the evening meal,

to walk the streets of a city and meet only with our eyes

the eyes of the reflective and the lonely.

We must bring our silence with us.

The only intersection in my town, once scarcely used,

now thrums with people and cars.

Soon there will be a streetlight.

One of the dwindling families of deer that inhabits

the vanishing hills braved that intersection the other day, and

we became quiet as they stepped gingerly across our hearts.

They brought their silence with them.

In the hum of the meadow opposite my house, I picked

yellow tarweed and placed it on the mantle in a blue vase.

It smelled like the damp wildness of all seasons.

From within the unruly bouquet a cricket's song rang out,

a noisy announcement of such cheer that it stopped me still.

I breathed it into the bottom of my feet.

But the sound that resounded in my ears was

the echoing stillness that followed.

I stood by the mantel and waited and waited.

I held my breath.

He brought his silence with him.

Joan BAEZ (2024). When you see my mother, ask her to dance. Boston: Godine.