Still Small Voice

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Still Small Voice

It’s evening now, and fruitless is the task
of repositioning along the mossy rock
to sip a golden sliver the trees let slide. 

Jealous ones, these evening leaves, but I 
can understand their hoarding of the light—
I too am here with thirsty hopes to find 

a ray of sorts. What should we call it?
It isn't quite sufficient to be categorized 
as evidence, but still, the presence here is palpable. 

Yes, perhaps its presence that I’m looking for, real 
and thick as lichen, and this place is full of both.
Clinging to the sides of something greater than us,

we organisms share a plight, (and yes, mine too 
seems sometimes cold and silent.) Dependent so,
I guess I’m here as much to listen for a voice

as anything, a whisper even, just to put to rest
suspicions of insanity. The pounding water tears
the rocks like paper. Speak up! It’s difficult to hear.

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