The phoebe sits on her nest
Hour after hour,
Day after day,
Waiting for life to burst out
From under her warmth.
Can I weave a nest for silence,
Weave it out of listening,
Listening,
Layer upon layer?
But one must first become small,
Nothing but a presence,
Attentive as a nesting bird,
Proffering no slightest wish,
No tendril of a wish
Toward anything that might happen
Or be given,
Only the warm, faithful waiting,
Contained in one’s smallness.
Beyond the question, the silence.
Before the answer, the silence.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipaYnQthnu7z2wwPyyhxPlKVu2WuNkermD8nbCXrVw0RBFkKLwhOMQ5Klb3gmHXNyPGTpQrCDNXTfhqL3RQDSYx2JZWfh4eRLpx_ONu7vD0DLTXJ0sLUYIfvVr03NA3P14uJxl2e6GtI8/s200/may-sarton.jpg)
Art credit: Nesting phoebe, photograph by Lindell Dillon.
Oh, this is beautiful. Much is contained in this smallness.
ReplyDeleteI love the lines ,can I weave a nest for silence,weave it out of listening. Simply beautiful!
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