the hand that reaches to pick up the telephone forgets who it trembles for when the phone remains quiet. once you're resigned to the concept of quiet, what was once a constant murmuring at your ear becomes a fleeting thought that accosts you at whim, like various
perfumes from darkened trees in an autumn night.
and once again, slowly, ever so ponderously, the lake settles with the flagging of white capped waves. the ripples reach the shore and turn back again unto themselves. And silence takes me into his arms, once again.
