I come with a deep stillness;
I was born with a great shyness, a long quiet, a demurity.
I feel it in the way a thousand notes play softly in an orchestra,
Yet I have no adequate speech to show my appreciation.
I sense it in the way the wind blows warmly in the springtime,
And I can not begin to describe the beauty linguistically, so I do not.
I’ll keep it within my mind, where it belongs.
I can tell it by the way I sit alone,
Writing bland, thoughtless poetry in the dark in late December,
So that even my fingers freeze in uncertainty:
To bring the thoughts from mind to pen- impossible.
I need to make up my mind, I’ve been told,
I need to speak out loud,
Show my heart,
Wear my pride,
Hide my silence-
Once in a while, anyway.
But I find it so hard,
Searching for my voice in the middle of the winter,
Like standing beneath a snowy tree, about to speak,
But you see your breath and so you stop and watch-
I just watch.
I feel that coldness, the quiet, the reserve.
When I’m boisterous, I regret it.
Being loud is fun, until you’re quite again.
I’ll speak tomorrow, I think, knowing I really won’t;
Maybe the next day, but probably not.
But tonight,
Tonight I come with a deep stillness,
And I revel in it.
I have no shame.
For deep stillness
Is mystery,
And mystery is intrigue,
Intrigue leads to complexity,
And complexity...
Is me.