One owl’s soft hoot eases out from the wood, and
leaves pause their evening flutter.
the last finch tucks down against a branch.
the only thing moving is that moon, slowly
slowly rising through velvety dusk.
Now we are all suspended together
just above the ground of a world’s constant motion,
we are all suspended together in a holy
state of waiting,
waiting together, breath
shallow and slowed for absolute silence,
absolute hope …
The faintest reply drifts in over treetops.
silver light smooth as stone and
no more than the smallest rustle
passed in dying undergrowth.
In one answering owl’s soft voice,
night is released from its patient
pause, from such
absolute stillness,
such hope.
orphan poems 