1000 years ago a man and his staff walk silently through the wilderness.
500 years ago a lad and his bow transverse the plains.
200 years ago a cowboy and his pistol gaze upon the mountains.
50 years ago a soldier and his rifle walked though the jungles.
Now I stand in a dark empty park with these words.
What is this heavy yet invisible fog that finds me alone?
A wilderness in between such modern construction.
It is always the gradient tones of morning or evening.
Never the high energy brightness of midday.
When the light leaves my eyes dim to only that which emits.
It is the crisp silence of winters embrace
It is the slow brought on by fatigue.
Some have called it melancholy.
Others have called it loneliness.
I have called it my chapel, my cathedral, the deep wood.
Why come drink at a spring who is so close to the lake of sadness.
Why sit quiet and let the battlefield rise from the mist.
Why not fight back. Make a clamor.
Bang the pots crash the pans.
I have seen beauty in the slow.
I am naked in the silence.
All around me the static of tires on roads.
The sound of a distant train.
But underneath the dull hum of biology the silence.
My beloved gives gifts that are slow to me in my finite revelry.
He is gentle and patient. So I come to the slow.
It is so short to him. So I sit in the silence.
I would stand naked before I AM. I have no other choice.
What quiet circumstance of infinite pleasures.