Stone rests on stone,
alone, unmovable.
Tree roots reach deep,
grabbing the earth in a death-grip
and above all,
there is silence.
I’m so cold, so tired,
so old,
and what am I to do
when I am my only companion,
and even I don’t want to stay
in this place?
The trees once gave comfort;
wind once smoothed the stone,
grass once grew.
Now the breezes bring memories
that are best left untouched,
but sometimes, suddenly, a song:
Oh yes, once there were flowers –
carnations sunflowers, tulips,
once, there was bright color and
music, oh the music!
Strings that filled the air with joy,
oh, the happy sound!
In dreams, the stone melts;
the music penetrates
and there is a face:
flowing hair, a silhouetted frame
that dances in the sunlight,
outlined in warmth, lovely.
She, picture of youth,
softens my granite heart,
moves the immobile,
releases the most beautiful
and most dangerous whisper:
hope.
Where she is, waters flow
that change a man into something pliable;
there are seas that change a face,
waterfalls full of colors
that seem impossible
and necessary.
But what if there is no woman,
no song, no flowers,
no eyes sparkling like the sea,
clear as the blue sky?
No whisper of the one thing
that makes life worth living,
the feminine form imagined?
And the trees and stone,
they know a dream on sight,
recognize a metaphor
and retain their solid vigilance.
Moons become echoes
and silence returns.
Alone, untouched,
hard rock and earth remember
a voice asking,
Can she touch me here?
Can she reach me
where I have gone?
When I am no longer here,
when rain falls amidst trees
and stillness remains
wherever I am to be found,
a song lingers, a touch,
a memory.
Stone rests on stone
alone, unchanging.
Tree roots grasp,
stabbing the earth and wincing,
and above all,
there is silence.