The death of a loved one is a sudden silence — one of those deafening silences that leaves ringing in
silence
Windblown
The veil concealing truth gets windswept in the wee hours, revealing all to the silence of the night.
Tempus nunquam dormit
Three A.M. is when
all the quiet things
become loud —
the drip in the sink,
that clock on the wall,
our hearts, our minds.
Juxtaposing
Spring blossoms flowers
Winter blossoms quietude
Pitch
Night
— the quiet of solitude
— the silence of loneliness
Internal listening
If you can’t get quiet enough to hear yourself, your life is too loud.
Silence in the poet
after a lifetime of doing almost nothing
but collecting words, now — here i am
finding that my life has become all about
that which cannot be expressed by words —
after a half-life of a burning desire to write
in order to find myself, suddenly i’ve found
an even more impassioned desire to write
by leaving behind that moulten shell, and
in this moment i find — silence is poetry
when the poet has nothing more to say
That social fellow
Where once I loved my flesh,
That social fellow,
Now I want security of bone
And cherish the silence of my skeleton…
—Thomas McGrath, from “The Progress of the Soul,” Figures of the Double World, 1955
Chilly bedtime thoughts
Winter is the slow-down
Winter is the search for self
Winter gives the silence we need to listen
Winter goes gray so we can see our own colors
Awake & alone
Night is filled with our loudest fears and a silent courage.