Unquiet Stones

"In the wave-strike over unquiet stones
the brightness bursts and bears the rose
and the ring of water contracts to a cluster
to one drop of azure brine that falls."
– Neruda, from "In the Wave-Strike Over Unquiet Stones"









The silent mouths of rocks no longer.
I have seen her, the paintress, who watches
out of her own window at the turret
of her studio how the crest of coffee pot mountain
stands at the distance
under the spectre of sunshine drench
and turn those canyons to tongues.
She walks shyly back to her canvas
and considers the permanence of the rose
splattered hues, the cork splattered
wash of the sandstone, decibels and wonders,
how to pluck the cord of color to music.
Somewhere out there the desert jay breaks
for its own wonders under the pinyon tree
crouched down into a crease of the peach lobes
and her mind turns to the love of stone
and her fingers fly from one swollen dash
to another and thought strikes
that no one has ever known or will know again
here is where the river of the soul resides
as stone and bird and tongue.
We live inside a dream of our original eruption.
A cosmos vibrates. An eye never dies.
The stone will always sing.