The Seeds Live in Silence

 

The Seeds Live in Silence

(“Solomon did not want the noise of hammers and axes to be heard at the place where the temple was being built. So he had the workers shape the blocks of stone at the quarry.” 1 Kings 6:7)

The seeds live in dark silence through the cool days
of early Spring. Dogs and deer and rabbits and humans
walk over the dirt of the tiny graves.
Tombs are always quiet places; filled or empty,
embodied or embalmed.
The first hour of the morning, while dew rests on
new grass
and the breeze has barely awakened,
you can hear the respiration of the world
as the last star fades before the sun.
Daybreak rarely shouts its glory.

As the sun arcs across the sky, we count the days
by dying and reviving; a cycle of seven and the
calendar mentions we are back to the same day again.
The seeds find photons of light and, still quiet,
stretch their shoots up like worship. Before the next
solar circle the buttercream blossoms will smile at the morning.

The hammers fell so loud you could hear the crack of wood and bone
all the way down the hill and to the outskirts of town.
Three more accused, three more collapsed with the grain,
not against it. No one held their tongue; it was a Friday
night fight
to the death with wagers placed by soldiers with
nothing much to do. They offered cigarettes to each other,
gawked at the naked shame and hoped the dying would be
over soon;
dinner was waiting at home.

Tombs are always quiet places, especially the first hour
of the morning.
But one tomb, borrowed; a gift really, held more than
broken bones or punctured hearts. One tomb rebirthed
us all as the angels spoke that

He had risen and paved the way for them to meet him
later in the day.

The women who approached the silent grave left to follow,
to tell what they had seen and heard, and yet,
in their silence,
were unsure exactly what to say.