The quiet

There is a quiet
Made up of still sounds.
The chirping of insects,
Deer rustling the brush,
And the wind.
When you are in
The country,
The darkness that descends
When twilight sleeps
Pushes away the memory
Of the sounds
Of the city.
The quiet is a balm
For the wounds
The world inflicts.
It is a time to reflect
Without judgement.
Just to know you are here
And the yesterdays
Don’t matter
And the tomorrows
Will come
One at a time.
And one day
All the things
That ring in your ears
Will be quiet
And the yesterdays
And tomorrows
Won’t matter.
And you will dwell
in the quiet
Forever.