Quiet Quirks

the absence

of sound



It vibrates. Seething with the residue of the last insult thrown after an argument, it bubbles up in trapped rooms, ferments and explodes like cheap champers. . .coating everything.

It pales. Empties. The ineptness of language stills in the presence of the awe-striking, Grand Canyon wide, Everest tall and Northern Lights encompassing.

It bows. Dips. In aftermath of a serious question, all that is as yet unanswered weights the air with the spectrum of possibility—and all outcomes to which each possibility leads. Parallel universes quiver in the pause.

It quakes. It disappears–and dominates–in grief. When all with which you express yourself–and to whom–is broken. Most especially your soul.

It comforts. Silken weave in swaying wavelength, separate strands spun from the same skein cradle good friends.

It nurtures. Womb-like silence in the woods, the chirping of crickets, rustle of leaves and branches, and birdsong accent it.

It soothes. Wee silence late at night, as rhythmic as absent slumbering breath, it shelters.

It relieves. Borrowed quiet among books, library silence is a tacit handshake with all who mill.

It pulls. Tightens. The quiet in a funeral home struts and frets its final moments posthumously.

It separates. Stonewall in the face of pleading, its obdurate nothingness wounds.


the absence

of sound


About Charron's Chatter

I bring to you an arrow, whole, Use it, or break it, But if you choose to take it --Know-- With it also, I will go. © Karen Robiscoe @1992

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