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. 
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