Threshold of Silence
When the Sky Refuses Speech
All sound folds inward,
a bird’s cry cut short,
the leaves stilled mid-rumor.
Silence is not absence—
it is pressure,
a weight against the ribs,
a listening too vast for reply.
Even breath feels borrowed,
balanced on the edge
of vanishing.
Trees hold their syllables,
branches frozen mid-gesture.
The air thickens,
its invisible throat
swallowing every word
before it can form.
I stand at the center of this pause,
a witness to a language
older than sound,
carved in stillness,
waiting to break.
About the Creator
Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales
I love to write. I have a deep love for words and language; a budding philologist (a late bloomer according to my father). I have been fascinated with the construction of sentences and how meaning is derived from the order of words.
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