Silence

November nights sound a
particular chord of silence,
the stillness of being and waiting,
of death and withdrawal;
with dark silhouettes of trees
and their few remaining leaves
motionless against a midnight sky.

Who would she be if
the surrounding quiet were
slowly distilled, drop by drop,
the elixir applied lovingly -
as with a cloth of finest muslin -
to her ever unquiet mind,
to soothe, and to caress it,
sinking into silence?