The light along the hills in the morningcomes down slowly, naming the treeswhite, then coasting the ground for stones to nominate.
Notice what this poem is not doing.
A house, a house, a barn, the oldquarry, where the river shrugs—how much of this place is yours?
Notice what this poem is not doing.
Every person gone has taken a stoneto hold, and catch the sun.
The carvingsays, "Not here, but called away."Notice what this poem is not doing.
The sun, the earth, the sky, all wait.
The crowns and redbirds talk.
The lightalong the hills has come, has found you.
Notice what this poem has not done.
