For Rebecca, for Whom Nothing Has Been Written Page after Page
We have a language that serves us more or less
for the earth and air and fire and the earth's water,
that sort of thing, for hydrogen and tin.
What phrase explains, what simile can guess
a daughter's daughter? We half know who youare,
moment by moment, remembering what you were
as you grow past, becoming by quick revisions
an image in the door.
When all the words are written down and read
and even the creeping weights are written in
what matters is what remains not said, not said.
Which is what long silences are for.
Structure
12 lines · 3 stanzas