The air is new. Fresh. Almost warm.
The leaves have begun their beautiful migration,
their colors surreal and perfect.
The river next to the road chants its mantra.
There are birds. You do not hear them
as much as see their flitting in the trees.
If you are still, and you are, you will see chipmunks.
For the moment, you are in your cathedral
waiting for God to rest from his creation of wonderments
and whisper answers in his gentle voice,
truths, direction, comfort,
None of it in the noise.
That is the blunt truth. We have not killed God
as much as we have drowned him out
in a bright haze of carney rides and music
drowning in it all, unaware of the rising sea.
About this poem
I love silence. God is found there. We are found there. Truth is found there. And it is all too rare. We seem to be afraid of it. We should be more afraid of its loss.