She became a type of stone,
soft-hewn and simple, an egg
whose embryo is sleeping.
Imagine a voiceless language
like water, spider or dust,
what birds say each evening
if I could sing, I would comfort you.
Her mouth, the soundless dove
nesting in the brume of a steepled city,
her slippered skin, a verse I write
in the palm of a book with pencil,
a single metrical line- of loss,
of stillness, of grace.