long last, like eyefire and spin-swimming laughter,
a click-swish click-swish step,

long silence,

like this is what it's like
this is what it's like,

long nights, like "look what you've found
in me, look- thank you."

Be silent always when you doubt your sense;
And speak, though sure, with seeming diffidence:

---I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope,
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing.
...In my beginning is my end.

Beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty, Silence.

Beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty,
beauty, beauty, beauty, beauty, Silence. Hands
and and night and morning
shadows and here and gone and
words and silence. Not to touch
because

There are things I would the world did know
But, alas, realize it can't be so
For the things I wish to sing and shout
Would do more ill if free without
Than good if loosed from my within
So I stay mum and we stay friends

Pipe UP

Imagine how much more interesting the logging industry would be if trees could pull up their roots and move about as they pleased.
People could make a sport of tracking down and killing oaks and redbuds and hollies just as they do bears and foxes and deer.
"Forget that fifty pound bass that you hooked, you shoulda seen the size of the maple that I felled last month!"
Paper would take on a much more sinister identity, like leather or fur.
Coalitions would form to stop the brutal slaughter of these majestic creatures. People would organize, rally, riot. Clear cutting would be viewed as equal to the massacre of the American Buffalo during early frontier days.
But as things are, trees stand still and silent. Climbing away from Earth towards Heaven with dauntless perseverance. Waiting, perhaps even willing (like the apple tree of fable), to be cleared in the name of progress. They go silently, and so there is no great glory in their deaths. They go silently, and so there is no mass decry. They go silently.
Don't ever go in silence.