Still,
still,
and then new leaves
are ruffled by
the morning breeze
and shimmied, trembled,
shaken till they’re
still.
Silent,
silent
till the birds
all trilling through
the trees are heard—
they sing their spirals,
coo and call until they’re
hush shhh.
Quiet,
quiet,
till the bloom
of anger does
what angers do—
riles, outcries
and tells us lies
until we live
it through
and then it’s quiet here
and silent, still,
till something rises
as it will
from nothing—
and how always
we return always
to nothing.
I can hear this one, despite all the quiet!
love the word, “trilling”
something from nothing returns back to nothing