(by Ziggy Rendler-Bregman)
When I am silent
it is possible to see
particles of dust collide
without making a sound,
each speck of carbon
from the bone of some fallen bird.
When I am silent
it is possible to hear
how song lines flatten
the edge of time, my own
heartbeat below the bridge,
where a stream with its
memory of cloud
flows into a deeper river.
When I am silent
it is possible to take
the smallest hand and walk
the garden wall where memory
of fuchsia and blackberry is
untangled from the tears
of a blue-eyed girl who
steps through the gate lonely.
When I am silent
it is possible to smell
the colors violet and azure
here in the midst of black.
Now, radiant with hope,
I lift my hands to incense rising,
bow my head low
to be blessed by ancestors
who whisper and wait.