Hush

May it be love!

The divinity of sighs.

Do words not become flesh as we speak? Angels, messengers, emissaries – a thing with power. Who longs to personify what is hidden in the heart? A slowing-down and a quieting blanket of hush.

Messianic saffron falling.

More than autumn rhetoric, more than emotive. Go beyond the primary sense of perception. Let's move past what the eye can see, beloved.

High-pitched school bus brakes squeal into a darkened dawn. The neighbor's dog barks at the kids shuffling their feet along the road towards the bus stop. Kora pricks her ears but perhaps has become slightly more discerning in her advancing age. I remember walking almost a mile in the dark on the dirt road through our woods to my bus stop. Deer would barely disturb fallen leaves and I could hear all manner of quiet rustlings. Tip-toeing the slight isthmus between the frog ponds was a daily ritual on the way. I remember the mind could travel far in this kind of darkness.

A veiled nun tends those hours with me now. I've asked her if she has been here all along. She only draws her finger to her lips, signaling, “hush.”