timbered hall, a quiet ship
sails an ocean of voices:
our silent circle besieged
by the rushing engines of the wind.
flat barley fields
the gale brushes the face
of ancient waters. A cock crows
again and again. Milk-heavy cows
somewhere. The church bell next door
begins its repeated summoning. This day of Pentecost.
we are waiting in an upper room, to which we came
in search of the inland sea
the heartís journey ends. Organ notes
blend with the windís music, distant voices sing
the greatness of the Lord. And then, in this room,
light as a breath, the Spirit dances
the circle of silence,
carrying the voices of the world,
resting upon each head,
speaking in every word.