Life is not just in bursts of noise.
It throbs within silence as well.
In sighs that are dewed in letters of love,
In incense that floats to stained opaque glass
In sketches that ripple with unceasing waves
In fragrance that wafts from an orchard in bloom
In dreams that are way beyond words.
So why then this clamour for
Conch bell and shrieks
From those who seek refuge in pause?
Rather I'll soak the quietness of nights
When no festive howls are heard
And fuse within veins some lavender and oak
That bear the still centre of time.