This Late in the Afternoon

This Late in the Afternoon

(“You are praised with silence in Zion, O God.” Psalm 65:1a)

Are the shadows similar to silence,
can I hear the shapes they imitate?
They intimate there is more here than
I first thought. Can silence be the same;
can it be a space that speaks of something else,
though it goes without a name?

There are three, maybe four people I know
whose silence is not awkward. We have not
run out of things to say;
we are simply digesting them, ruminating
to find the truth hidden inside
everyday conversations.

I found a snapshot of my father,
his father,
and me,
and my son. He was not yet one
and we stood on the lawn for a picture
of four generations. My son does not remember it,
so I think I will send him a copy, without comment.
Silence never insists on a particular point of view.

The shadows grow longer this deep into August,
I must find the sunny spots earlier than a month ago.
Clouds swim overhead and the sun ducks behind one
for a few moments. My fruit trees blink when it
peeks back out. Silence is stiller this late
in the afternoon.

Like Snow in the Desert

Like Snow in the Desert

(“May the Lord be praised! He has given rest to His people…” 1 Kings 8:56a)

Places arise from consciousness, buried below
beliefs and farmland. Who hears the seeds shouting?
Who cuts down trees with birds in their limbs?
Healing arrives on unexpected days like
snow in the desert, like the pastels the peek through
the side hills and mesas.
I can’t explain it,
but silence is my medicine,
slow is the pace of my reanimation.
In the hollows of our minds there are snapshots
reminiscent of times we laughed without reserve.
The canyons opened on either end to rivers so
lazy
they barely spoke a thing.
If I was young again I would
take more naps in the sun.
I would unwind the yards of
insistent lanyards that kept me painfully
straining to submit to the instructions
left behind by my captors.
After so many miles there are curio shops
with silver and turquoise awaiting my slow meanders
between aisles of beadwork and sage.
After so many years there are drum songs I wish
I could hear one more time again. There are
friends
whose smile (even those who think I’ve
lost my way) would light my soul like
campfires that smell of mesquite. We
would tell our stories without critique,
laugh or cry, we would walk the winding way
with songs still incomplete. And our faces
in the fiery glow
would tell us everything we ever needed to know.