Another poem about poetry there was a time
when every journal I opened used the magic word, silence,
the poets in the journal.
And at the time I was living above a very noisy freeway
and felt qualified to write this poem called
"Some Meanings of Silence."
"It has the last word so many times.
One takes his journey or performs his experiment
and arrives at silence.
Apparently, a happy ending.
Silence at its most literal I experienced once
in a northern forest.
I marveled at it and felt misanthropic when bark fell,
or some buzzy flyer aimed by how exact--
other silences just clutter the picture,
they mean empty not clear, they imply flat not
tranquil, they say, step easily out this door I'll carry on.
In the silence, I know, I hear how noisy my head is
and I shift toward conduct most efficient at the still centers.
Snow knows this.
Molds and mosses and mushrooms work this way.
Silence shapes out from inside.
It is not a way out, not for the fatigued.
Peace may be the world's widest awake creation to be awake in.
The automobiles never cease on the highway below me."