Reciting Doves

She became a type of stone,
soft-hewn and simple, an egg

whose embryo is sleeping.

Imagine a silent language
like water, like spider,

what birds "say" each morning;

her eyes reciting doves (nesting)
in the brume of a steepled city...

her slippered skin, a verse

I write in the palm of a page,
a single metrical line- of stone,

of stillness, of grace.