There is the Empty Silence,
when the little hands waving out the car window disappear down the road
and suddenly the home seems a loosely-knit box of nothingness,
and it must be filled by music or the washing of dishes;
when the streets are empty at three am
and there is still a long way to go;
when train times pass, the station suddenly bereft of purpose;
or the long winter months in age or illness.
when the last note of the piano has dissipated
on a particularly beautiful piece
and before the applause begins;
when a crowd is waiting in solidarity
for the screen to flicker
and for the talking head to explain;
or around the dying person’s bedside,
just as the soul leaves the pupils lax.
The Holy Spirit revolves around the Fullest Silence:
when the Logos descends, the Silence grows heavy.
The priest bends low over the bread and wine,
his voice lowers into the Secrets:
the centrifugal Spirit closes in on the altar
becoming the naval of the universe.
The bells ring out,
like a best man tapping his wine glass with a knife.
We can match the air of our inner self
to all those around us and to the still, Silent Lord;
those who have cultivated the silence of the heart
can answer the golden call.
