Silent

Silence is a danger to the heart
That misses what it loves, and therefore broods.
I didn't say that worrying was smart,
But worry in itself often eludes
The wisest soul - and wiggles into it,
Despite all measures of avoidance. When
The air is quiet and its edges sit
Empty of the hum of busy men
The mind turns inward and the worry creeps;
The ears are gateways to the heart's distress,
Which moves by intuition, in great leaps,
Making of what was once so clean a mess.
The only cure is memory: to know
She will come back and lay the worry low.