Tuesday, October 1, 2013


The stillness,

after the wind dies,
after the mountains
have been thrown down,
when fire burns the bushes,
ignites the trees,

the stillness
is in the death of flames.

The low whisper of rocks
falling from the path,
in the gullies, canyons, and valleys.

The stillness of a heart monitor
in a hospital room.
Death comes.

The Word of the Lord
is my stillness.
I am hidden in the clefts.

I wrap the stillness
around my joints
where age saps my strength,
misfires my heart,
dims my perceptual vision,
and muffles my ears in white noise.

When I am alone,
in wind,
cobbled in rock,
your word of 7000
 is my comfort.