"In the large dark room"

In the large, dark room I sat waiting for God.
The hills had all crumbled into desolate dirt,
The beautiful faces mere specters of shame.
The words could not come out; I could not
find the words.

In the stuffed and stuffy dark I sat;
The cool breeze brushed a door I could not see.
"Let us hang ourselves," said my strange companion,
"If he does not come tomorrow, we hang ourselves."
Shall we accept springtime from God
But not the dark captivity? Shall we?
Silence is louder than any symphony.
Shall we not listen to the songs of stillness?
Shall we not sit at His feet and hear the
needful thing?

The stars have their sonnets and the sea its horns,
But my God has His own song: silence---
Thick like the itching wool sweater, twice as warm.
You know its presence on the cold winter's day:
It the cocoon that waits for the morning
Past mourning, when the world will be
as a star.

It the cavernous closing; the descent into hell
Before the ascension into heaven. Hang ourselves?
We are already dead; we wait for the resurrection.
In the large dark room we wait for perfection,
For the cracks of dawn to split the sky and cast fire
round about.

-Jon Vowell (c) 2009