The Rareness of Silence

The sun comes over the quarry.
A sole pine tree is silhouetted from the rising sun.
It is early still. Before the day’s traffic begins.
You and the sun and a distant bird.

The cat spent the night out,
and runs in as you open the porch door,
a grey blur, brushing your legs.
You go out, soaking in the moment.

Silence is rare. Fleeting. A treasure.
A place for your head to slow down,
to let go the maelstrom, emptiness
that all your madness cannot fill.

Silence is rare. And when it arrives
you have the sense to lean into it,
the sense to know your own needs
and claim the peace, make it yours,

make your life slow. Stop even.
Empty out. Prepare yourself
to begin again, and ever again.
Sanctified in the precious rareness,

God’s gift. Grace,
unexpected and undeserved,
and thus, that much more of a gift.
Silence is rare.

About this poem.

Written in the cacophony of a downtown diner. At times, we make our own silence. Precisely because it is so rare.

The picture was taken early one morning in the quarry across the street from my home.

Tom