The Edge of Silence

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.