The absence of sound may be barren and voiceless,
but this peace that seems so calm and solemn
is as loud and consuming as our ears can stand.

A house devoid of noise and energy
is a windless winter’s night,
is a mind with a chance to finally speak
without interruption.

All the louder and more resonant,
all the more demanding than any fireworking,
freight train, foghorn…

In this case, the sonority of nothing is convincing.

In my case, this illusion of peace and quiet
reveals itself as less than a butterfly’s whisper,
yet more constant,
more prominent.
It insists upon itself as if it were real.

Is it?
It never lasts.

The presences of all noise-
from the leaf’s dance
to the cracks of thunder-
can cut through it like a blade.

Any spare word can dissipate this thick lapse
like locusts slicing the air,
coloring what cries between silences.