Angel Of Repose
in the cradled arms of this silence,
nestled deep in the bosom of this quiet,
language is unnecessary,
sound is a luxury waiting to be heard,
the hum of an appliance,
the flicker of the fire,
the exhale of a breath,
an aria as she sleeps beside me.
there is music in the spaces between our speech
where I have watched her dance,
the bride becoming the little girl
who never took ballet.
there are dreams in the pauses for reflection
where I have slept, eyes wide open,
the little boy awake in his bed,
restless to become this man.
as I lie here,
taciturn in this vestal hush,
all I hear are
my angel of repose,
her beating heart
like the flutter of wings,
like the rhythm of a lullaby,
rocking me to sleep.
Le Silence, painted plaster sculpture by August Preault circa 1842-43