• Listening to the Earth

    Morri Creech

    Summer 2005

    We’d heard the prophets speak,
    knew well their eloquent thunder, the split stone
    and urgent whirlwind of their voice and word,
    had grown used to the fierce synaptic streaks
    of flame, the olive-bearing birds
    and withered fields that figured their concern.

    But what we’d never heard
    was their silence: the wind grown inarticulate
    at their retreat from us, the god’s command
    hushed in the trees, a voice they’d said had stirred
    for our ears that we might understand
    what now, plainly, none of us could interpret.

    At first we were relieved—
    such talk of mystery and consequence
    when there was work to do, laundry and errands,
    the grain waiting for harvest. So we lived
    unhindered for a while, our minds
    less cluttered, clearer, fixed in the present tense.

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