Who can hear the pause
of the hush between the ripples
on a pond newly frozen
in the moonfall of the night?

Who can feel no difference
in the silence that precedes
the knock upon the door from
the certainty that follows?

If the answer to all answers
of the question that propels us
be not you whose star is hitched
so clear and bright upon your shoulder
and whose audiences ovate
from the tiers that rise around you
then this riddler who poses
like a harlequin before you
must remove her silver jingles
and her silent red felt slippers
and resort to coarser merriments
in hopes that you will leave
behind the shadow
of the question,
who will hear?


© Elaine Stirling, 2014