by Laura Melvin
Might the old Meeting House at Bear Creek Friends break the silence?
If so, it would speak a wordless poem —
to catch it on paper would be like trying
to net the kaleidoscope of clouds that sprint across open fields.
As the Holy silence deepens
experienced benches creak in rhythm with deep breaths
as life spirals into greater unknowing.
This mute poem is unhurried;
with soft eyes that sparkle
it watches the winter Light
scattering unpredictable abundance
across the seasoned plank floor.
Bare branches nod at the window.
Wordless wisdom peeks through
In smiles of contentment.
The door opens,
With a clack, the elderly latch breaks the silence:
“All is well.
God is here.”
Iowa Mid-yearly Meeting