The Thoughtful Speech Of Stones
I’ve spent a long time learning the songs of wind and water,
the slow and thoughtful speech of stone.
I have asked the young stream that rises from the head of the valley--
Do you believe in the ocean?
and await its answer.
I want to know what these scattered coyote
bones have to tell me and what you’re trying to say
when you sigh in sleep in the middle of the night.
Every road that has ever cracked, turned to weeds and dirt,
every building that has crumbled to ruins, every
garden that has gone wild --
these are close and kin to me.
I’ve seen a river boil red with spawning salmon,
felt the howl of the wolf set my flesh afire,
watched, with the stone-still patience of the hunter,
the solar turnings of a year.
I have sought within the hollow where breast and arm meet
and on the dark undersides of river stones;
in the eyes of 30 years of lovers;
in dusty books and new books; and in the light that lingers
after the sun has set.
I’ve forgotten now what it was I was looking for --
a glimpse of eternity, the touch of the infinite?
There is no end, only the seeking and the road,
a hard and dusty beauty.
