Silence / Billy Collins

There is the sudden silence of the crowd 
above a player not moving on the field, 
and the silence of the orchid. 

The silence of the falling vase 
before it strikes the floor, 
the silence of the belt when it is not striking the child. 

The stillness of the cup and the water in it, 
the silence of the moon 
and the quiet of the day far from the roar of the sun. 

The silence when I hold you to my chest, 
the silence of the window above us, 
and the silence when you rise and turn away. 

And there is the silence of this morning 
which I have broken with my pen, 
a silence that had piled up all night 

like snow falling in the darkness of the house— 
the silence before I wrote a word 
and the poorer silence now.