There is a Hush That is Sacred

 

There is a Hush That is Sacred

(“So God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it God rested from all his work that he had done in creation.” Genesis 2:3)

We sat on benches only inches apart,
the work was finished, the words inscribed.
The ducks roamed the pond idlily,

and the dogs napped in the sun.
The rains had filled the stream on the hill and
the water fell, softening the air.

We found a silence that
bound us only closer,
a triune conversation, a dialogue of zero,
a soliloquy floating on the breeze.

Butterflies like linen tugged our gaze along their
crepe paper flight. They were not giants nor
marked like monarchs;
simple, small, singular. They owned our hearts
stilled by the moment at rest.

There is a hush that is sacred,
trees have always known it.
There is a language of angels,
we work too long to hear it.
There are doves who have learned to
call the world to themselves,
in pairs in the branches of the new elms
beyond the field.

I remember there were sailboats on the river,
do you?
In the momentary stillness they moved past
our consciousness too fast.
There was just the rest we shared,
a memory lasting longer than forging words
in the fire. There was no misinterpreting the
questions our quiet had asked.