It is a time when all things mute find their voice,
all things obscure become clear,
when silence is permitted a word
and sight is gifted to a blind man.
A time for the littlest of things,
for a fly to be still in the yellowness of a lemon
on its way to an open window;
for green peas and corn kernels at the dinner table
to magnify the Lord.
It is a time to study the quiet ways of clouds,
to stand beneath them
and be transfigured by their subtlety.
A time to give pain a pillow so that it may rest its head
and to stroke its knotted hair with your empty hands.
A time to sit on the porch,
to keep the company
of mosquitos filled with righteous vengeance
and to pull off your sock
so they can feast
on the heel of Achilles.