by Sherrie Robins
In a time of strong opinion,
may I say that I don’t know?
While pulpit pounding preachers, preach,
may I watch the green grass grow?
Is it alright if the gentle breezes blow,
softly ‘cross my face,
as I seek the truth in solitude,
veiled in mercy, love and grace?
Must I join the loud throng’s symbols
as they clatter & they clang?
While others shout in certitude,
be quiet & refrain?
May I listen to the falling rain,
be still inside myself?
Wait for a softly spoken word,
a word that may be seldom heard,
a word so soft & hushes still,
that only silent room will fill,
In garden, creek, or flower bed,
…or begging hand for want of bread?
I’ve heard the drum’s incessant sound,
the neon’s flash and garish hound,
my ears throb from the constant pound,
Come away, come away, come away.