Forty-Something Years in Ninaland

 

Silence is a beautiful mess.

I heard it the other day 

in a song they didn’t play on the radio.

You said it, silence, I know its particular hum.

Like soft guitar strings,

low notes we cannot hear in our frequency.

No matter how loud the theme music in our movie.

There are colored threads weaving between our fingers.

Like the women who stitch Persian rugs like robotic angels,

with our silky elegance,

we weave our pasts.

It is all obvious sound, 

blatantly, sometimes this symphony is cacophony.

And the make believe clowns in our minds

who sing us out of tune songs

they are not in funny harmony, 

they create pretty noise.

But you sing a different hymn.

You stopped singing…

I interpreted it the other day.

You were saying wait,

you move too fast.

But did you know?

You are not falling behind, I am.

When you don’t speak,

is the time I hear you,

like a butterfly’s song, 

you create wind.

Some say silence is golden,

I think it is a rougher jewel. 

I think it must be an unusual rock,

flaming with muted trumpets,

to quiet its passion.

You say nothing at all,

and I wonder if it’s patience you want

or an end to a song no one ever sang.

nina