Refugee Diary p.2 Silence

There is that great small silence of the nothing that is everything.
There is the silence of the senses opening inward toward love’s curved palm.
There is the silence of hands folded near an old Celtic cross hanging in a pouch.
There is the silence of a Jackson Pollack, foreground and background skipping like rams, like cedars of Lebanon.
There is the silence of the absent friend tending to prayers needing to be said against the silence after many great sudden noises.
There is Guadelupe looming on the horizon praying for us all.