Words
The world does not need
words. It articulates itself
in sunlight, leaves, and shadows. The stones on
the path
are no less real for lying uncatalogued and uncounted.
The
fluent leaves speak only the dialect of pure being.
The kiss is still fully
itself though no words were spoken.
And one word transforms it
into something less or other --
illicit, chaste, perfunctory, conjugal,
covert.
Even calling it a kiss betrays the fluster of hands
glancing the
skin or gripping a shoulder, the slow
arching of neck or knee, the silent
touching of tongues.
Yet the stones remain less
real to those who cannot
name them, or read the mute syllables graven in
silica.
To see a red stone is less than seeing it as jasper
--
metamorphic quartz, cousin to the flint the Kiowa
carved as
arrowheads. To name is to know and remember.
The sunlight needs no praise
piercing the rainclouds,
painting the rocks and leaves with light, then
dissolving
each lucent droplet back into the clouds that engendered it.
The daylight needs no praise, and so we praise it always --
greater than
ourselves and all the airy words we summon.
~ Dana Gioia ~
(Interrogations at
Noon)
(left button to play, right button
to save)