May 12


There is a kind of silence,
That we know all too well,
It is the kind that comes,
With the absence of words,

Like darkness it creeps in,
Hushing the evening crickets,
Until they chirp their melody,
No more.

It rolls in upon the clouds,
Like a particularly warm summer heat.
And settles upon the meadows below,
Like a chilly fall wind, that,
Brings with it the bite of frost and snow.

It is not a comfortable silence,
But it lays there still, 
Like a tapestry pulled over the sky,
It lays thick across the night,
Beckoning forth beasts that bite.

But there is another kind of silence,
One like the rumble of bullfrogs,
Over the plink of a pebble,
As it crashes against a pond,
And send ripples skittering out,
Towards those same bullfrogs.

It is the silence of a city’s hum,
After you return from a place,
Where all night the crickets sung.

It is the silence of noise,
It is a silence like the blindness,
That comes from looking,
Directly into the sun.

And it is all too comfortable,
So much so that is slips unnoticed
Through our minds and across,
Our tongues.

Silence is scary,
Like a walk in an all too dark woods,
On an all too dark night.

So we head inside.
And curl up by the fire, instead.
But that does not stop,
The hisses and the howls,
Of the animals that prowl,
It does not soften the teeth,
Nor does it lessen the claws.

Only create a false quiet,
That makes it much,
Easier for us to turn,
A blind eye, or a deaf ear.

So that we cannot hear,
That the cricket’s sing no more.