Friday, July 14, 2006


Here are the things I am not to speak of,
wrapped in barbs and snowy tulle,
all the things forbidden or deemed
too tender for the slightest touch.
In the middle of this hayfield I stack
a circle of stones around them.
You might think I mean to build
a pyre, but I am making a monument,
a tower to touch the sky and honor
the time for dreams and secrets.
You will not stop me, my love.
My hands were formed for this task
Take my silence as your tribute.
Hear in it the song that flowered
from drought and darkness.
Listen, listen.

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