A Poem by Anon ymous
What loves the stones.
For they seem to exist.
She can’t put a name on silence.
Figures it must be God.
He knows the nouns and verbs that spell despair.
for no one:
What loves the sky.
What loves the hawk circling the field.
What loves the field the hawk circles.
What loves a well wrought story.
There is nothing left but completeness,
the quiet balance of morning.