I’ve stood at Merton’s cabin
seen the blinking cell phone tower
soaking in the silence with
the distant passing cars
I’ve sat on the Bench of Dreams
and felt nothing and everything
ignorant to the seeds of contemplation
in the soil of my heart
Now, if I know one thing
it’s God who speaks in silence
and only fools fiend the babble,
they clamor on and on and on
hallelujah, thine the glory
surely God must find it boring
wishing all would learn the language
simple words without speech
But I know it’s hard to find a whisper in the chaos cattle call
it’s hard to leave the multitude for the mountain
when you’re so use to the cymbal’s gong
it’s hard to let go of it all
I am no desert son, no anchorite
there’s both wrong and right
where those seeds were buried
but I no longer assume
the flower is spoken into bloom
creator casting spells
by silence just as well
I’ve stood at Merton’s cabin
knowing I was trespassing
peering through the window
at the lamp still on
I’ve sat on the Bench of Dreams
wondered what it all might mean
aware of the seeds of contemplation
seeds of contemplation
new seeds of contemplation
in the soil of my heart
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