This is the time

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.