Don't have anywhere else to really post this but I'm trying to get back to this part of me.

At night I walked
in forest
over hills
through shallow water
going nowhere, but
seeking solitude
seeking silence
seeking something I called
grace

Even in rural
Pennsylvania
it was always too loud—
certainly among others—
to hear it
so I wandered away
from light and noise
into clutches of dark trees
where I always felt home

I looked starward
chest aching
I begged the sky
and the earth
and the trees
to fill me with grace—
which I understood
as the end of
yearning
the quiet within
I couldn't find
without

If I got far enough out
where stars brightened
I sometimes caught
a moment of
true silence
(or close enough)
and I'd think—
there it is
let me take this
grace
into my heart
and carry it
with me
back
into the din

In that moment
I was the sky
and the earth
and the trees
and I yearned
for nothing

Then
on a distant road
a roaring truck would
pierce the moment
and I would grieve
to have touched
grace
and lost it
again

How gossamer a thing
is grace,
I thought,
to live only in
perfect silence
how unjust
that it be
so elusive

Of course
I was a fool
mistaking
solitude
for sanctity
silence
for peace
stillness
for grace