Faith














The evening of her last day entered quietly,
soughing in on feet shod in silence and purple.
She listened for the rustling of the lilac branch,
the whisper of the breeze through the silver birch.
She listened in vain for the nightingale's call,
the shrill cry of the killdeer.
Hearing none she raised her voice--
sent up a song to the Father of Silence,
sent up a song in celebration
of the silence that was
and the silence that was to come,
and when she was finished
she listened--
to the slowing of breath
to the slowing of heart.
When it was finished
she listened and waited
in silence.

(Image: Jim Strong; Empty Chair)