The Noisy World

A pair of fir trees at the edge of the sea.
Snow on the ground. Not a wisp of wind.

The ocean is calm today. The waves quiet,
not quite, but almost silent.

A winter day you can stand in. Stand still
and let the weak sun find you. Warm you.

It is a good day to break rules. Break yourself
and leak out over the snow. Invisible blood

as you seek emptiness, seek a new beginning
free of the detritus of the world we all must live in,

free of demons and lies and suppositions,
open to the cold fresh air and empty space

in your head that you crave.
Quiet. Stillness. Peace.

It is an odd thing that you come to such places
to find what most people believe you have inately.

But no, You come here. Store up the silence.
and go out again, seeking to do the best you can

with what is left. This is not a complaint.
Yours is a life of opportunity. You can come here.

Stay here. Let the silence fill you.
You have the wherewithal to know when you need this

and claim it. Refill. Again and again.
And then re-enter the noisy world,

carrying your silence with you, a torch,
always burning, always renewed. Always releasing light,

Or at least,
trying to.

About this poem.

I have not been to the sea in a while. And it will be a while before I go again. But I have been often enough that in some ways, I carry it with me.

The picture was taken in Kennebunkport, in the churchyard of George H, Walker Bush’s (The first President Bush, my fave.) family church.

Tom