Carved white marble. Silence. Peace.
These languages I speak.
Cross-legged and reverent, palm
to palm in hope, I understand.
No need to translate into words
which skim the hand-made paper
like stones across a pond, leaping
and flying, sinking to the depths;
or sing as hymns which weave
Morning Glory, wild among the rafters.
If you've any comments about this poem, Maggie Butt would be pleased to