Gears Begin To Turn

Gears begin to turn, pinwheels start, dizzy skirts whirl, do-si-do.

Circulate, clap, do-si-do.

The summer fans hum, feet step and turn, roses in the sun, do-si-do.

Slide through, clap, do-si-do.

Windmills grind, arms bridge and rise, bowing eyes, do-si-do.

Swing through, clap, do-si-do.

Beaters making dough, banners in a sky, hands pirouetting, do-si-do.

Face right, clap, do-si-do.

A gradual smile, stumbling move, furtive glance, do-si-do.

Face left, clap, do-si-do.

The Silent Woman

Those who sought the heart of the library had to pass a granite statue. The Silent Woman stood a few feet inside the entrance to the Reading Room. The gray Silent Woman had been sculpted by a famous artist. Her bowed head was wrapped in a carven scarf. Her eyes were down and closed.

In a dim corner of the Reading Room I took off my winter coat and settled into a plush armchair. Wooden shelves heavy with gilt-lettered books enclosed the silence, like the walls of a cathedral. My seat faced one side of the Silent Woman.

I opened a book. For an hour I read. Then I shut the book. The dry pages seemed unimportant. Small voices from the nearby Children’s Room had tiptoed up to me.

I listened to the little voices.

Like a bubbling stream of soft, musical notes, the voices pattered and splashed and giggled. They chimed like crystal water cascading over stones. From the Children’s Room I heard glee, excitement, surprise . . . softly running feet . . . a sudden cry of delight. I heard the joy of eager spirits that refuse to sit.

I tried to understand the indistinct voices that swelled from a knowledge of life’s immediate fullness.

As I listened to the happy voices, I lifted my eyes to the Silent Woman.

Her head was bowed. Her eyes were closed.

She seemed to be waiting.