by Pilar Stewart
Sometimes the deepness of quiet
loses me. I do not understand
when trees stop the rustle;
birds refuse the song;
my heart’s beat is muffled.
I retreat from this silence,
hobble as if sick
and pray for the storm:
the split sky,
rent like a carnival:
bright lights,
spinning air,
joyous noise.
When I have prayed
and the storm does come,
I know that
I shout
and the sky will answer;
I stamp
and the ground trembles;
I jump, the world is hopping in orbit.
No longer in space
a silence
widened into a pit
but a struck chord
I grip
and can find my way
following the sound.
