There is a time to be silent, words full of tact held until the kairos moment, then flung from a slingshot to the center of another heart. Another silent time brings a pause,
time ticking but not bringing clarity, rather bringing memories of freedom to speak, to express, to care, that no longer linger in the spaces of this silence.
In the silence a paradigm begins or maybe just emerges from a cocoon of words you neglected to say; leaving the heart wondering what is right and wrong, redefining how to breathe, waiting for who will listen intently.
Now silence is tired, and when was its perfect time? Long ago, long before midnight came, that is certain. wandering in the dusk it finds only hunger, a hunger for love in the drought of late summer, the time that pauses as if someone never showed up, while waiting for the rain that would come just once. Home is not far now, as the dust rises from the unplowed ground where a seed will fall and die. Silence listens at the door in case anyone is inside, anyone who went by unnoticed, needed for the hour at hand.
The garden thirsts for love also, waiting one hour or two for redemption, if any silence remains to fill the empty questions in the shadows.