Sonnet #51

The Word of God is silence, can you hear it?

It is the hum of blood, a windless day, a buzz

below the threshold of the ear, because

all the movement and the heat, how we sit

on the back porch, listen as the late summer

sun that's beating down the trees and bodies

All of it's a shivering echo of a threnody

Sung when every piece of star was smaller

Than the eyes that search out for the source;

After that word spoken, what need for prophets

There are flowers in the fields, blood laughters, 

songs in twilight among all gardens, and what of it?

Can't silence also have a volume rising hoarse

these ripples of a silent shout, strain to hear it?