A still, small voice gently calls in the night. Only at night-after the day has run its course and devoured every ounce of me. Only when the winds rustle the stars about in their heavenly, dreamy state. Only when the silence creeps and covers, and the ticking sound of the clock tolls to remind my imagination of reality once again. Listen.
A voice? Perhaps. It is barely audible. I cannot always make it out. It is not shrill or harsh like the whistles of the day. No. It beckons, swoons, and stoops low enough for me to barely touch it. My ears cannot reach–I must listen from some place deep with in me. Listen. No more speaking. Listen.
Like that of a mother’s lullaby. sweet.
Coming from a child’s smile. inviting.
An orchestra in perfect harmony. wonderful.
The trees rustling their leaves in conversations. gentle.
A still, small voice calls to me in the whispers of the night-only after the day has run its course and devoured every once of me. But, with the empty nothingness I have left, I will listen and strain to hear the breath of another–speaking in barely audible wisps. sleep. peace. rest. come deeper in.
Listening, all night, to the voice. the voice. Breathe in. Listen. Breathe out. Listen. No more speaking.