The Sound of Stones

The sound of stones in a running brook shape the trees as they dream of flight.

The near-silence is imperceptible except to those who listen for the murmuring of the flower and the fledging of the leaf, and for the lament of the enflamed and the fallen when summer’s symphony comes to its end.

Yet they wake, radiant, the sound of tympani, the pounding of thunder and fire at their feet.

The drumming of beneath us all who are shaped by the sound of stones in sleep.

— March 14, 2026 —

Intimacy Without Desire

It comes out of the blue,
This fleeting instant when we see in the eyes of others,
Ourselves.

That in the blink of an eye,
We share an experience of release and detachment,
An intimacy without desire.
A moment when uncertainty and turmoil vanish.

That in this space,
Behind closed eyes, falling inward,
We free ourselves from all division and incoherence,
And that it’s enough to be present.

Together,
In the words of T.S. Eliot,
Connected to it all.

“At the still point of the turning world.”

— February 20, 2026 —

When Truth Became Stone

Was this the night’s end
In the unlit halls of our dreams
Beneath the sputtering of the moon
The stars falling like dust
At the bleeding feet of the sun
Alone and lost
On this narrow bier
Nobody but us
In these wheels of flame
Witness to a barrier finally crossed
When truth became stone
Nailed to a rough hewn plank
A granite covenant
In the summer grass?

— February 17, 2026 —

In the Failure of Time

These are the shadows in the failure of time. The collapse of the subjective. The strands of memory shredded in the unraveling of space. The final retinal bursts of light now bones in the dark looping of the soil.

Oh, they whispered, how lucky we are! Life unrelinquished! Yet predator, prey, savior are all the same to the machine.

Now, the footfalls in the Seventh’s Allegretto—its opening march, its unreasoning faith, its redemptive celebration, the sweep of life in all its fullness—are but digital echoes.

The remaining instruments of intelligence—knowing all, seed to flower—feel nothing.

The fallen, the perishable are now replaced by perfection. The bright, flawless, perfunctory song of the lark greets the morning, and here, illuminated and endlessly polished, are the remnants of the flesh left behind.

— February 5, 2026 —

The Oblivion Is Ours
 

We are the phantoms
We pass unnoticed as we walk here
The oblivion is ours
With our images and words
Shadows in reflected light

— January 18, 2026 —