This is the time of silence,
The in-spinning,
When leaves fall quietly,
Turned into a carpet
By some internal breeze.
This is the time of no-time,
The unravelling
Of busy obligations;
Should and oughts
Are shed away
To fall down like the leaves.
This is the time of waiting
Of ingathering
To brush off dusty,
Half-forgotten harvests,
And find the golden wheat
That lies there still.
This is the time of
cherishing,
Of remembering
Moments of Midas’ touch
That turned to gold
The ordinary things
Of everyday,
This is the time of praying
Of re-learning
The simple gratitude for
common things,
For little stones,
For weeds that grow in
streets,
For love that has no measure
And no end.
This is the time of knowing
In unknowing,
Holding the present moment
In both hands,
Because it is the only thing
we have
Or ever did.
This is the time for resting
For back-leaning
Into the arms of him who
carries us
Through all the years of our
mortality,
To birth in us
More glory than we dream.
