Everything is Quiet Here

everything is quiet here,
the sun's gone somewhere
for a sleepover,
clouds linger for one last peek,
window-shopping at a world
too busy to be sold into,
the waters are restful,
singing their own lullaby
into the growing night,
the birds are back in their perches
communing over the mundanity
of yet another fulfilling day;

everything is quiet here,
the doorbell's fallen silent
straining its ears to listen
to the breath of all things
animate and inanimate,
the phone lies in a corner,
undisturbed by the desire
to belong somewhere
falling back into the emptiness,
tiny ants scurry along
the safe edges of a wall,
risking their busyness
to feel one another;

everything is quiet here,
where happening melts
into being,
where I am something
that simply lays still
with the hushed air,
not wanting to be anything more;
perhaps that's how we feel
when we die,
when we feel we're a part
of everything's that's here,
in the quiet greatness,
simplicity and totality
of this one precious moment.