What if the emptiness were one of
expectancy? Of hope and anticipation?
Of leaving room to be filled?
Not all emptiness is the same.
Wide open places of the heart
Bleak spaces, cold and desolate
Space for innumerable stars to shine in the night
Space between buildings in a blizzard
A crib, empty, waiting for an expected child
A crib, empty, after the slaughter of innocents
Which is this emptiness?
May I choose?
I do choose emptiness, after all.
An emptiness of the night sky just before
the stars appear
An emptiness like the inside of a flute
– the reed of God, Caryll calls Mary –
so too for me?
I will leave room.
I will wait.
The filling is not up to me.
It will come.
The night ahead catches its breath
then settles into a peaceful longing
which is in itself part of the hoped-for,