Down here, where the light can't lie,
the different pitch of every drip and drop rippling,
the clatter of rocks spalled by ice,
the groan of faultlines grinding,
are syllables, filtered pure
like the water perking through gravel and cracks.
I spend my winters stacking syllables,
touching each sound with my tongue
while the ages erode the stone grain by grain.
No wildflower ever knew these secrets.
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