Still Small Voice

I don’t need to tell you
all that I am anxious about.
Just watch the news,
look at social media.
There are a thousand voices
screaming it out.

I cannot add anything
to this hurting world
consumed as I am
by fear.

Instead, I will step away
for a bit,
to take a walk.

Now the leaves turning,
now the chill air,
now the creek trickling,
now the vast sky.

Now the tall dry grasses
bending in the silent breeze.
Listen.
Such a quiet rustling,
too quiet to hear
unless I let go
of the noise.

I want to watch,
to listen,
until this becomes
the one true thing.
Until I realize
that I, too, embody
the still small voice.

It is my own breath,
my own heartbeat,
the blood that pulses
through my veins.
My very being
is the still small voice.

And now,
I set the silent breeze,
the dry rustling grasses,
and the vast, vast sky
on the communal table.

By Maria Brady-Smith
Photo by Mike Smith