I wake before the sun,
Before the ducks and the geese and the children.
I sit in the dark, light a candle,
And listen.
In those quiet moments,
I hear God’s secret language.
It’s the sound a blade of grass makes as it grows,
The sound of a star racing to disappear,
Of clouds stretching their arms and legs.
Sometimes it whispers louder—
Trees dance a waltz with the wind,
A lazy river flows around a soft bend,
Beethoven breathes life into keys.
If I listen close enough,
I hear the sound of problems untangling,
Of my heart’s deepest questions coming to a soft landing.
But watch out!
The world is a sneaky spy.
It will tug at your ankles
Like a hungry, petulant child.
A phone appears from the mist, flickers on—
A rabbit pulled from a hat for no reason.
Words and opinions slide into the cracks,
Stealing any empty space they can find.
Why does the truth whisper and the world roar?
I close my eyes,
Listen again.
If I’m lucky, it’s still there.
I know why Thoreau went to the woods,
Why all the best poets walked among nature.
It was the only way to hear themselves
Amidst the world’s clutter and moaning.
I think maybe death is like a long 5am moment—
The candle flickers but never burns out,
Silence is warm and deep as a lover,
Contentment sweet and startling as blueberry pie,
With no one fighting for the last piece.