Silence is not scary;
It does not beat around bushes
or hobble on stumps.

Silence has a potent vulnerability.

It lives in rainbow
Configurations at the bottom
Of a bubble, in the moment before
Its life bursts.

When the whick in the moonlight
Scented candle whispers
That it is burnt out, silence escapes
In the spiral columns of smoke.

A whisper, a whimper, a whine.

But where does this whimsical
Figure hide when the trumpets
Of activity and evidence of
Vitality roar down through
Grey clouds and spill
Across valleys?

Silence goes wherever it is welcomed.

Behind closed bedroom doors,
In the shared air of two people
Enjoying each other's absence
Of thought.

Between lines of prose,
In the spaces you leave behind
As you continue
Moving forward.

When the worst is assumed
About this or that,
Like the horror of silence
and its clumsy ways,

Moments are lost to
Marching bands and
Irrelevant chatter.