The rumble and buzz of cars
that blots out birdsong
is but one bleating sound
in a constellation of noise,
a devil (if I believed in the devil)-
designed distraction from
the voice in the cave
of my heart
that I do believe in.
So, I will arise and go now,
and go to New Camaldoli
and there a cell of silence seek,
a shady seat beneath
the fruiting fig tree, and
Mother Pacific,
O Father Sky,
a view of blue further than I can see.
Drench me in Your breezy quietude
and remind me in the cooing of the dove
that I am nothing if I have not love.
With appreciation to St. Paul (1 Corinthians 13:1-3) and W.B. Yeats (The Lake Isle of Innisfree)
