Deloraine Friends
thought upon thought
tumbling like stones
thrown down a well,
Trying to shift
to a place of quiet
trying to climb down
to meditation through
a hundred hungry
clamouring thoughts

A circle
Six, or seven of us,
most weeks. Cold mornings,
institutional chairs
warm greetings,
then silence.

Through the window,
sunlight pushes patterns
the old apple tree
twisted grey branches
in silhouette on the
brick wall all liver toned
in the winter gleam

Greedy mind fixed on the window
cream paint, peeling,
and the apple tree brick wall

Supposed to dive
inside myself
to look for God,
these people
in their country woolens
and loving shown on their
God is in all of us, they said.

Deeper, through bubbles
and bubbles inside bubbles
of shiny distraction,
to a place where silence
is inside as well as out

To a place where silence
will only be
rent, if there is a compulsion
of words.
A thing, to be said
forces itself up,
through mind or body
forces itself,
until it's playing around
your teeth, playing,
whistling at your lips,
Until the weight of the words
throwing themselves out of you
Weighs more than the priceless pearl
of silence