Two stones at rest at the summit of a hill.
Two stones at rest at the summit of a hill
Atop which we too are seated, resting.
We two at the summit of a hill, seated atop
A pair of immovable stones, whose rest
Is permanent. This is the summit of feeling,
I do not say, you do not say, we do not say,
But rather point out facts about surrounding
Hills, on which we will never sit, not in all
Likelihood. Two members of a race of
Hill-cresters, patient onlookers, silent yet
Officious prospectors of open space,
Rock-noters, tree-noters, bird-noters,
Forecasters of a weather internal, we
Are careful not to speak of what we cannot
From this vantage distinguish, of images
Discrete and therefore ever-vanishing,
Ever-feathered by wind and mocking rain
Falling upon a landscape irreal and therefore
Unpuddled, falling upon the brow of our
Hill soundlessly, upon our two summit-stones.
Better to speak of things solid and therefore
Uninterpreted, better not to infract on solid
Silence, only look and in looking unfurl,
Give up on meager provenance, on walks
Through pine forests or on grassy tracks,
On afternoons when through a chink of
Wood or vale of fog there would appear
A hill, solitary, in the center of our sight,
And at the summit of that hill two stones
At rest. Better not to have seen that which,
Once climbed, would unseam us, would seem
To radiate and in its radiating offer nothing
But its sight, of which we were never sure
Though sure that we would never tire.