Poem by Bob Ward
Silence is hardly pure. Life engenders
Breathing aloud, spider steps, and white noise
– Your nerves fretting to their own agendas –
But there seems to be a spirit that employs
What rises from near quiet. Just recall
When Elijah, bloodied by raw righteousness,
In hiding unclear how fate might befall,
Heard lightning strike, bulldozers piling stress,
Jet planes as they disembowelled the air,
The people beaten back from human choice,
Wrought detonations, volleys of despair,
And breaking through all this a still small voice
Came urging on the faith to which he’d clung:
A voice that speaks to you yet needs your tongue.
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