Silence

Silence falls in form of flakes, snow on snow,

And slowing Sundays, afternoon and eve,

Gather this noiseless peace unto windows’ height—

Frost and ice and winding white water,

Not so rapid as the river, yet quickly collecting

At her beckoning call.  

She, the order of things, Nature at best,

Breaks into our peace with that of her own,

And what yields she but cold and vast swirling winds,

Sheets which so blanket our ground and view.

Yet, what silence she bears with which she 

Garnishes the broken places of our town:

The thinning trees and crumbling buildings,

Curdled creeks and sloping sidewalks.

Who walks these once steel-ridden streets

But Christ in old work boots giving out at the sole,

Given out by a Worker some year past,

Maybe he wears a new scarf on unshaved neck,

Piercing, cavernous eyes, looking for a home, for a heart

To dwell in, to love, to challenge and cherish.

Am I afraid of you, my King? For you indeed do come

In so humble a state; you’ve done it once and you do it again,

And again, and each day I pass you in my fashioned car.

Warm am I, but my heart freezes up around you.

Why? Why must Divinity remind me of weakness?

Of the frail, broken heart no more secured

By my endless toil and gathering unto self,

Much as the snow gathers to my window?

The Winter’s chill blows on whom it will,

Ice and snow fall on rich and poor, young and old,

And she, she cares not whom she leaves numb, 

Lying in a gutter, beside the tracks of my well-beaten path,

Dying from the same neglect, the same disrespect

And misunderstanding which crucified you before.

Your cross? The street. The nail? My indifference,

My fear, my shame, my pride, my comfort.

Let me no more hang you on the twisted trees of Sample Street,

Hammering away with my practiced power to ignore

You who cry out in a silence so disturbing that

What falls all about me and all about us in these hallowed times,

Seems not peace, despite its beauty.

Silence bears much fruit, be it death or disguise.