Poem | Rest

Swiveling in our Sabbath-rest,
we are impressed
by the slow,
winkless kindness that glows
slightly when we still.
No thrill,
no sudden
unrelated frill, no madman
trumpet-blast.
One silver cast
of calm,
bracing us with the flavorless balm
of god.
It’s odd.
The only brightness,
it took this long to notice.