The quiet of the woods
is not your regular quiet,
not empty-room quiet,

but a full quiet, still to the brim,
quiet held in soil grown over ages,
filtered by leaves and feathers,

a quiet fermented by eons of rain,
the quiet of birdcall and snowfall
and snowmelt and sun,

a stillness shielded by trees
even whose young ones
are older and wiser than we,

whose roots silently ponder
what is below, and know
without saying,

a quiet held in the owl’s gaze,
who sees your quietness
which flourishes within you

hugely, agelessly,
growing in you
as silently as a mushroom.

Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
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