[“Peace, silence, purpose, meaning.”—T. Merton.]

This is the lonely art, this love, a mortal origami,
folding and unfolding hearts and hands. Unaware
of the shape a soul must take, I rise and leave—
as open as this page—a love letter to the winter air,
unsigned. I own no words or forms and know no prayer
so sacred as the silence of dark when I forget my face.

All names and sounds sharpen the edges unfelt
Between you and I: the you I seek, the you that sees
each obscure dance of knees and dirt and feet that sing
upon gravel, leaves, feathers and bone, brown and brilliant,
this all burning earth. You, the dust, you, the cold floor,
you who hold me up and teach me to look to heaven.

Yet as quick and wide as eyes can open, flicker—
I miss you, cannot catch the face I feel just beyond.
Easy passing forms blind my eyes to mirror only
The surface of life—snow along the mountains,
clouds before the sun—so I am learning to listen.
And this is a lonely art, waiting for glaciers to speak
And stones to sing—but to hear their answer!

Into the blue calm above the rising winds,
In the little death between each beat, each breath,
Somewhere, in the hollows even atoms hold,
This love fully unfolds the purpose of time
In rhythms for every blooming, dancing thing.
And it is good that you reveal with the patience
of ages, the low tremble of continents, and speak
so slowly—we are still learning to listen.

01/14/2008

Posted on 01/14/2008
Copyright © 2025 Laurie Duncan