The phoebe sits on her nest
Hour after hour,
Day after day,
Waiting for life to burst out
From under her warmth.
Can I weave a nest for silence,
Weave it out of listening,
Listening,
Layer upon layer?
But one must first become small,
Nothing but a presence,
Attentive as a nesting bird,
Proffering no slightest wish,
No tendril of a wish
Toward anything that might happen
Or be given,
Only the warm, faithful waiting,
Contained in one’s smallness.
Beyond the question, the silence.
Before the answer, the silence.
Art credit: Nesting phoebe, photograph by Lindell Dillon.
Oh, this is beautiful. Much is contained in this smallness.
ReplyDeleteI love the lines ,can I weave a nest for silence,weave it out of listening. Simply beautiful!
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