What word will do
to gesture toward
the dark gathering
of mutual mystery,
said of the unseen
by saying nothing?

Beyond utterance,
speechlessness
hoping to be heard
by a keener ear,
before any word
was ever spoken,
dies broken like night
by a single shaft of sun.

Silence past Summer,
unmurmuring Spring,
Autumn unmentioned,
Winter, mute, or that
other season: Humanity
wherein we dwell,
listening, listening,
sometimes ceasing
to mere appearance.

Not far to go,
a simple step
into forever. . .
Off then, goodnight,
into sheer light
beyond any season
known to the moon.

February 16, 2012 Robert Hunter