In the hills, the old languages are speaking to each other, away from our habit of interruption. Clicking tongues, kisses to open the sealed envelopes of flowers; hard syllables sleeping in libraries of fog. The garrulous throats of small animals— I long to learn their kind of fluency, how everything they say is neither mournful nor ecstatic though their chants punctuate all the hours of night. I want the word for sleep to hide in its depths an oasis of waking; and the word for death to carry in its arms the shadow of a door.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.