Silence without, silence within. The mind not dying to make itself up. The house quiet as an hourglass. The soft tap tapping of the rain. The mind not dying to make itself up A story of what is happening here. The soft tap tapping of the rain, The sound of the wind in the trees. A story of what is happening here Is not what is happening here. The sound of the wind in the trees Asking for nothing. Is not what is happening here A man sitting at his desk Asking for nothing? The rain stops, the wind dies down. A man sitting at his desk. The house quiet as an hourglass. The rain stops, the wind dies down. Silence without, silence within.
Sing, Creator of song, to the wholeness inside which my soul is aching to bring itself forth in these orphaned days. The rain pours with relentless force, and the mind tortures itself in forests too dense to take comfort. And though I flee to the desert in a seven-year drought, I go drenched in this rain. I enter the black hole of fantasy, racked with dreams of fantastic rescue. Never have I been reckless enough to wreck my old ships in search of new lands, yet here I stand, floored by the actual. Let me seek with reckless indifference to cost the intangible treasures that can never be lost, and let me reckon now with how I will raze my towers to brave my mortality. Do not rock my landlocked body to sleep tonight until I have prayed with the urgency this daily emergency demands.
On this rainy desert night,
leans toward spring.
On the roof to-night
Listen to it sing.