The tender hush

The tender hush,
silence,
tranquil,
subtle.
Silence becomes the only truth,
the womb of God,
so quiet,
softly,
like the leaves of the willow
or the tall grass
swaying gently
in the breath of breeze.
How it says so much,
unspoken.
How the rush,
the many speaking,
debating to prove,
get lost in the dust,
monsoon of speculation.
Yet the womb,
the womb waits,
the womb carries,
the womb is.
And we fall,
lie down,
unseen,
hidden from the scheme of things.
And we rest in the womb,
and no one knows
from where we come
or where we go,
but the one
who is the womb,
unchanging.