Silence is the soul's break for freedom,
He said, page one-seven-six.
I underline and tag the page,
Then drop the book, dive in
And find myself inside the sound
Of crickets, played so slow
You hear a choir of angels rise
From meadows’ string and bow.
And now I am the air beneath
A Red Tailed’s whooshing wing
As she lifts up from earth to sky
And free, begins to sing.
Strange, how something in her call
Evokes its counter-sound -
There’s silence in that screeching cry
That's sung so far from ground.
And landing now from reverie
I hear my own soft cry
And find inside, a quietude -
An inner taste of sky...
And wonder: are our feeling sounds
Of laughter, love, and grief
Not also soulful freedom breaks,
With silence in relief?
Perhaps our human form of flight
Soars on the winds of heart
Where tenderness sings wild and free,
And angels play their part.
He said, page one-seven-six.
I underline and tag the page,
Then drop the book, dive in
And find myself inside the sound
Of crickets, played so slow
You hear a choir of angels rise
From meadows’ string and bow.
And now I am the air beneath
A Red Tailed’s whooshing wing
As she lifts up from earth to sky
And free, begins to sing.
Strange, how something in her call
Evokes its counter-sound -
There’s silence in that screeching cry
That's sung so far from ground.
And landing now from reverie
I hear my own soft cry
And find inside, a quietude -
An inner taste of sky...
And wonder: are our feeling sounds
Of laughter, love, and grief
Not also soulful freedom breaks,
With silence in relief?
Perhaps our human form of flight
Soars on the winds of heart
Where tenderness sings wild and free,
And angels play their part.