Mind and voice at rest. No spoken word
escapes. No curse or query, no complaint
mars the birdsong morning and our accord.
A silent man in India was only heard
through his acts of giving. We acquaint
our fluttering minds with his unspoken word’s
peaceful kingdom. What can’t be said endured.
We dip our cups into the silence, a faint
but unmarred song. Morning hour’s a cord
that cinches thought and sheaves impulse. Furred
quiet rent by false starts. Constraint
minds the voice, arrests emerging word,
sends winging through air the unheard.
We debate in scribbles. Quibbles self-contained.
Nothing to mar the air. It has occurred
to me that this is the world’s balance, cured
of friction except the kitchen’s clinks. Restraint
of mind by nulling voice. The rest! No word
dims the doves mourning, a rare accord.
July 10, 2004
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.