The edge of silence
haunts me,
listening here,
where there is still
song and rhythm
and echoes and noise,
sounding and resounding.
It would do
no good
to put my ear
to the edge of silence.
There would be no news,
no hints, no vibes, no clues,
coming here from there,
from beyond the edge,
from no place.
I cannot speak
across the edge,
but neither have I crossed to there,
and I still have this voice.
And so much left to say
about who I loved
and how I loved
and what I did decent
and did well and what I did
that did not help
and what I should have left undone.
But all songs have accent points,
pianissimo, harmony, crescendo,
and debatable notes,
and so shall mine.
The best that I have done
was arguably the work of others
with whom I played, and loved,
and labored, and chased after
gossamer-winged fancies.
Can you hear
the smile in my voice,
when I say, here,
at the edge of silence,
that we were sometimes great
together,
and sometimes awed
at what we discovered
in and out of each other.
To have simply lived as we have,
and as we do,
and as we went and go,
was and is, perhaps,
too careless or, maybe,
too careful, but was and is
courage all the while.
And so,
I am moved here
at the edge of silence
to say that I am certain
that you will step forward
and forward again,
and be just as brave
as you can be,
and full of song,
and full of look and listen,
and full of touch and love,
and building dreams
that will last and last
as long as you are willing.
All of you.
My dear ones, my babies,
my comrades, my heroes.
