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 of silence, weave it of listening, listening, listening, Layer upon layer? But one must first become small, Nothing but a presence, Attentive as a nesting bird, Proffering no slightest 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.
I weave a silence on my lips
I weave a silence into my mind
I weave a silence within my heart
I close my ears to distractions
I close my eyes to attractions
I close my heart to temptations
Calm me O Lord as you stilled the storm
Still me O Lord, keep me from harm
Let all tumult within me cease
Enfold me Lord in your peace.
