the silence

If silence is golden. Speaks volumes. The chime before meditation. And after. And in-between. The silence of the lambs. Bleating. The silence of no lambs bleating. The silence of no iambs, pentameter or otherwise. The echoic silence after the 3-foot-diameter steel gong is gonged. The eloquence of the words not said, the argument not posited, the point not made, the victory not sought. The power of the pause, the well, the hollow, the vapor, the sky. The weight of it. The invincible juggernaut weight of big fat, divine Unspokenness rolling down the avenue for the Krishna festival, devotees throwing themselves before the wheels to be crushed in sacrifice. That kind of obeisance to silence. The silence more than absence of words or sounds. The white space of silence. The anvil of it. The cartoon bank safe falling onto the sidewalk from the skyscraper of it. The where did it come from and where does it go silence. The ringing in your ear silence that screams. And the silence after that.