Knocking I Hear
By John Herlihy

Is that the sound of knocking I hear,
Or is that the sound of a splashing tear.
Or even the rise and fall of the heartbeat of fear.

There is no doubt that a knocking can be heard,
At first soft, like a brush, with the weight of a bird,
Silence interrupted, something in nature has stirred.

The wind can be silent, but all it touches stirs soft sound,
Leaves have their own rustle; the tinkle of bells resound,
The earth itself gives voice, from deep within the ground.

I hear laughter in which life’s trials have left no trace,
Footsteps come and go but the sound of footfall has no face,
The eye speaks volumes without uttering a sound in space.

But the knocking, when it arrives, virtually stops my heart,
Raw emotions arise suddenly as though wishing to depart,
Birds at dawn or church bells evoke mystery for their part.

The knocking felt like two hands beating upon inner drums,
I offer up the weight of my body when the sound comes,
I surrender the weight of my soul into its infinite sums.

Knocking stirs air and beckons the heart with its finger,
How to describe it, soft, with delicate sounds that linger,
The compelling calls of the loon in its rich, dark timbre.

All the voices of the world gathered into a solitary beat,
The knocking on the door of my heart surges in heat,
With no breath, I cannot utter a sound, not even a tweet.

Is that the sound of knocking I hear,
Ever louder as it approaches and draws near,
I hear, not see the Beloved, my heart in His, held dear.