In Stone

Slick with rain
these gems of flowing
shrivel down to silence
and a dust
in my pocket.

One shimmers yet
upon my palm,
and we strand transfixed
at the vortex of twin orbits . . .

a creature born of
water and the womb
and a speaker from
Creation's broad back--
both sustained in
Earth's cool sweat.

We cry out to the runes,
archaic written words
on cracking marble slabs.
But we are lost
in the translation.

So I stand alone
and chisel meaning
out of air.