The cars, the engines, the
sirens, the creaking floorboards,
exhaust, construction, trains, planes,
the chatter, the birds, the wind, all the noise in
the world causes a different
sort of deafness.
A deafness of the mind,
of the spirit, of the heart.
A hearing of everything,
but hearing nothing.
I thought of it while looking
at one of the rocks on the
fringes of the train tracks,
amid the roar of near-by
traffic and the disappointed
conversations of Monday
morning commuters.
A rock, nothing special about
it. It’s hued in grayish, purplish
colors and wouldn’t make a
geologist excited. Not a specimen
for the mantle or museum.
What I marveled at was the fact
that it was there. Unmoved.
This non-descript rock of
unknown origin hasn’t moved
in years. It has sat, quietly
against the noise of the world,
the chugging of trains, blustery
winter winds and summer rains.
It has sat still. Patient. A silent
passenger in time.
I wondered what it had heard in
its patient silence and if I could
ever be still enough to hear it
too.
And be strong enough to bear it.
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