Today hubbub and hustle
tramways trollies and trellises
crammed with travelers, trophy-takers and talkers
the cacophony joyous ascends, surrounds, spreads
and in this din great tidings of cheer resound
and rebound, and return round again.
But at the core, where I sit,
(you are sat there too, you know. Just listen)
it is silent. The Quiet is here.
Thick. Palpable, wooly white and
smelling of seasoned woods and wet forest kneeled
and of the hush in the heart of the Snow-Covered Fields.
It descends, swells, covers and crawls
(on feet like Sandberg’s cat)
and fills the core of cheer with substance
For here it is we sit and wait,
for the coming of our Heart
Their meaning to our Core impart.
And as the night stretches out and goes on
and the din dies down exhausted and content
the silent sound of labor has begun.
The shriek of sweat trickles down
(fingers down life’s blackboard revealing white beneath)
her face, contorted in composed intent concentration
Bearing down, the groaning of contractions
and the towering soundless shouts of no one there with her
except her earnest clumsy man so loving, so full of silent fear.
*me sat here, throat lumpified and choked,
mummified and heart stokes,
smoke stacked up, backed up
and no where to go but inward,
no words to say no deeds to do
no place to go no getting away
no arriving new just sat here,
The silent moment flexes hard and pushes
Her face a rictus of the wrenching passion
of the passage of a God, her baby
and then deliverance and everything on pause
every heart breath held and chest unmoving
until the night is pierced by One Small Cry that echoes still
across our darking skies,
in the fullness of Anticipation
In the Season of Silence, this Holy Present Silence.