A Psalm for Sunday Morning

 eight or nine notes of brief police siren

arrests every listener’s mind for an instant,

until anyone who knows the trouble isn’t theirs

slumps their bodies back

on bed pillows or couches,

returns hands to rest again on kitchen counters,

shuffles newsprinted pages,

finds comfort

in warming swallows of coffee or tea

now cascading over and around this momentary breach

comes the peaceful healing of measured magnitudes,

cathedral music enormous and hushed

seeping its richness into the fissure,

the near stillness of close harmonies

sweeping away the alarm

blending exquisite,

a lush chorale nullifies the recent danger —

it cancels the fear with soaring ebb and flow

rendering the flaw gossamer

nothing remains but the thinnest of scars,

a pale white ghost softly fading into memory’s recess,

its merest trace now the least reminder

thus washed, the ghostly mote departs,

only knowledge remains

to say this momentary rent ever was

its history a silent existence


among the silken rainbow amens

© 2012  by Leslie Silton

All Rights Reserved


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