When I wait for words to come
and they refuse,
I know that silence is golden
and spreads its early morning sunlight
across the breakfast table
where yellow butter melts on hot toast.
Light from the rose window in Chartres
once spread its spectrum over my hands
and I bathed in its speckled glow.
My fingers stretched out before me
and I was speechless;
for in such glory,
mortal things like words cease to flow.
So much can never be said
even if it is sensed: fresh coffee,
poutine à pain, bread baking,
flowers bursting into bloom,
the sense of immanent beauty that fills me
when a butterfly lands on a flower in bloom,
or each time my beloved enters the room.