Let me seek, then, the gift of silence, and poverty, and solitude
where everything I touch is turned into prayer:
where the sky is my prayer, the birds are my prayer,
the wind in the trees is my prayer,
for God is all in all.
It is the silence that touches me at first,
or rather, the still quiet
that lowers each of us
into the well of His immense silence
within and beyond all silence;
that guides me gently
into the winter evening fields
where no paths are visible
beneath the falling and filling light;
the erasure of my coming and eventual going.