Silent are the birds
whose beaks break free
the words
we cannot know.
Silent is the wind
who rushes 'round
each storied trunk whispering
comfort to yawning souls.
Silent is the River
tumbling forth and twirling
'round hidden lives and laughs
with burbles of treasured sowing.
Silent are the leaves
whose landing paints the ground
with stippled sighs expressed
'neath crunching boots.
Silent are the clouds
who have seen it all before
through teary eyes that bring
impatient choruses to life.
Silent is God
whose very Hand is seen
through the shivering glove of Nature
speaking eternity.
To search for silence, friend,
is but an errand for fools
until you don the courage to
step into the woods.
—Iris Lennox
Iris Lennox 