Stillness settles
On tree limbs
And branches,
As if all the world
Is listening.
The quiet of
The night worries
Not about
Response,
But offers up
All that is there
In silence.
What is revealed
Is not measured,
Crafted for audience,
Meted out skeptically.
It stands in its
Entirety,
Whole,
Imperfect
And beautiful.
Categories: Poetry