Gifts to the Silent Watcher

Indoors,
Alone,
In a great city.

The sounds
of human striving
never cease,
never fail
to penetrate
the sighs
of the radiators
and the morse code
of the water pipes.

there is a tree
that seems,
through the
battered window,
to be bent with age
or beckoning for help.

But,
upon stepping
outside,
i am shocked:
the air is gentle,
the people
subdued,
deferential:
kind.

The trees
are gently pressed
into precise little parks
or fenced sanctuaries --
like glittered squares in
an Advent calendar --
proclaiming
their holiness
to the silent
watcher.

There is
no place
so lonely,
so rushed,
and yet so full
of Being,
ceaselessly unfolding:

Here,
humanity exerts
its restless will,
while making room
for Nature,
which waits,
watches,

And,
to that silent watcher,
smiles and waves.

--Mr. Gobley