Who hears the humming 
of rocks at great height, 
the long steady drone
of granite holding together, 
the strumming of obsidian 
to itself? I go among 
the stones stooping 
and pecking like a 
sparrow, imagining
the glacier’s final push 
resounding still. In 
a freezing mountain 
stream, my hand opens 
scratched and raw and 
flutters strangely, 
more like an animal 
or wild blossom in wind 
than any part of me. Great 
fields of stone 
stretching away under 
a slate sky, their single 
flower the flower 
of my right hand. 
                              Last night
the fire died into itself 
black stick by stick 
and the dark came out 
of my eyes flooding 
everything. I 
slept alone and dreamed 
of you in an old house 
back home among 
your country people,
among the dead, not 
any living one besides 
yourself. I woke 
scared by the gasping 
of a wild one, scared 
by my own breath, and 
slowly calmed 
remembering your weight 
beside me all these 
years, and here and 
there an eye of stone 
gleamed with the warm light 
of an absent star. 
                               Today
in this high clear room 
of the world, I squat 
to the life of rocks 
jewelled in the stream 
or whispering 
like shards. What fears 
are still held locked 
in the veins till the last 
fire, and who will calm 
us then under a gold sky 
that will be all of earth? 
Two miles below on the burning 
summer plains, you go 
about your life one 
more day. I give you 
almond blossoms 
for your hair, your hair 
that will be white, I give 
the world my worn-out breath 
on an old tune, I give 
it all I have 
and take it back again.