by Madeleine Roberts
When the rocks cried out for weeping
I knelt to the ground and wept.
This sphere is too great for cupped hands
like water at the fountainhead
overflowing, baptism of reflections.
I am quiet multitudes past
the sum of my fears, though the hours waver
in high tide far above the bedrock
where I once stood. Sometimes there comes
a candle on the water, lit by
stronger hands and pushed off in faith
upon the current. And so
a dripping flame holds by the spirit’s side
as nothing else today, when
I could not bear to feel for all the being.