Our times ago

Those waves of silence you once could hear sweeping your shores of yesteryears, our times ago. Could you tell? Or could you see it in the old ruffled quilt of unmending half-truths left fraying behind? In the wrinkled lace of your hanging cloud? Could you, maybe, just hear it? In the slithering rain finding its way through the armies of blades that  armor your ground. And again, in the squelched rolling whisper of late spring breeze seeking safe haven and shade beneath the palms in the tree. Could you tell? That there is faith in the presence of your absence; That there is no coincidence in the absence of your presence. Could you believe it? Needless to say.