Originally posted 6/12/2013.
The noise passed.
We were left behind.
The noise had been young,
made of all the things of youth:
insistence; shouting; imploring;
we’d gotten past these — we’d changed,
or the noise had become
anathema, or the new shouters had
decided against the old ones — oh, certainly
that last one hurt. Abandonment always does,
for a while; then we moved on by standing our ground.
We did more of what we’d been doing: noticing,
affirming; at last we were growing our moss,
attending to the worn grooves and paths
that the noise had used to pass us by
and then left unused. Look,
we whispered to no one, here’s a stone
I’ve never seen, here’s a new flower,
a new voice or an old one that’s been
It was quiet when we said these things.
We could hear first ourselves, then each other.
So: the noise has become
distant. Sometimes single words
rise above that faraway clamor:
“elders,” “honor,” “legendary;”
words for someone else
to ponder and debate.
We have our own work to do, and stubborn love
for this new quiet we will do it in.