Journey with no sound

A hand throws open
a library window
to release the silence.

Freed from words,
it hovers
between drops of rain.

It predicts the dance of leaves,
and it is the patience
the grass keeps.

It comprehends a massacre,
Yet the dover, fading to sleep,
folds it in her cloak.

Between light and darkness
it expands.
It exceeds the hidden wound.

Entering your house,
it inhabits your furniture
and mocks your personal philosophy.

It knows the end
of longing and misery,
and awaits your final breath of surrender.

Sean Lause is a professor of English at Rhodes State College in Lima, Ohio, United States. His poems have appeared in the minnesota review, Alaska Quarterly Review, Another Chicago Magazine, Beloit Poetry Journal, European Judaism, Illuminations and Poetry International.

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