I know eternity hides in rocks,
see the beauty of granite lines pressed
into pages but what of
the molecules, half air, half water
hovering above a green lake?
I wonder, breathing in this watery
layer, is it Japan? Scented air exhaled
one hundred years ago by some
young geisha as she carefully
poured green tea?
Those rock walls stood watching
Laurel, Madron, and Oak
trees bending in a valley wind
carrying this same watery air
across rough topped continents.
This air pausing
to caress the cheek of
a sleeping boy, then, drawn to
curl close to white woodsmoke
and a passing whisper against
those lonely rocks.
Robinson, did you hear
a different language in the
conversation between pine water
air and those lovely rocks? Is that
what poets do?
