The Mouth
Not some forgotten part
of the body — the spleen
or hair on the rim of an ear.
The mouth is wide, like a city.
Like horns in traffic, most words
are useless and annoying.
They make a mess of family,
friends and work. Lying
between head and heart,
it takes all our lives to tune
the tongue true. Even then,
there’s plenty that flits in
from who-knows-where.
A bit of it, thank God,
is halting and beautiful.
Stones In Their Ordinary Time
Stones, in their ordinary time,
suffer no great want,
no necessary sorrow.
They lie where they belong,
beneath cities and fields.
No fleeting passions,
no flimsy good-luck blessings.
Just rain and root in a slender crevice
and the surprising delight
of footsteps on the surface.
Exposed rock faces spread proudly
across the wooded hills.
They mean what they say
and, in evening light, they get
what they need: a view
of falling leaves sacrificed to soil
and the long hardening that follows.
Layer upon layer,
autumn upon autumn,
the flat broad hand presses firm.
A million years pass quickly.
Rains trickle down.
A mountain.
A cliff.
A perfectly smooth pebble.
It’s not hard to trust the odd,
random shape of your life,
when you dare to believe
the world is already offering
everything you need.