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.