Poets tend to need quiet for their work. I am certainly one such. In fact, as I get older, the more
I become a committed devotee of silence - I consider it part of my creative medium. For me,
listening to silence has, more broadly, become part of my way of life. Sometimes I hear words,
images for poems, sometimes I just imagine what I hear. This poem is probably a mixture of
both kinds of hearing.
It is when I am quiet I know I exist. So I seek out quiet, its locales, its gentle aura, the halting embrace, and I am drawn to what I imagine lives deep inside quiet, namely music, Lying on the grass in the field beyond our house, I become a deep sea diver imagining I am drifting down into the summer world of all that green, passing through its layers of distraction - the crowded city spires of the many grasses, their colorful flags, the ever questing traffic of insects, and I am part of the silence down there, a visitor stepping into a majestic Being quiet long enough I begin to hear molecules chanting their music inside the stem of a thistle, spherical notes rising and falling in ancient earthen ecclesiastical tongues - and then a single molecule, falsetto, chanting alone offers its solo part of the oratory the choir of molecules and atoms sing all summer long, the very music which keeps the thistle being thistle.
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