Because one owl’s soft hoot eases out from the wood,
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,
suspended together in a holy
state of waiting,
waiting together, breath
shallow and slowed for absolute silence,
absolute hope.
The faintest reply eventually
drifts in over treetops,
silver light smooth as stone and
no more than the smallest rustle
passed in dying undergrowth,
and with the one answering owl’s soft call,
night is released from its patient
pause, from such
absolute stillness,
such peculiar hope.
orphan poems 