Words. (Poem).

1.

   What is one to make of a life given
   to putting things into words,
   saying them, writing them down?
   Is there a world beyond words?
   There is. But don't start, don't
   go on about the tree unqualified,
   standing in light that shines
   to time's end beyond its summoning
   name. Don't praise the speechless
   starlight, the unspeakable dawn.
   Just stop.

2.

   Well, we can stop,
   for a while, if we try hard enough,
   if we are lucky. We can sit still,
   keep silent, let the phoebe, the sycamore,
   the river, the stone call themselves
   by whatever they call themselves, their own
   sounds, their own silences; and thus
   may know for a moment the nearness
   of the world, its vastness,
   its vast variousness, far and near,
   which only silence knows. And then
   we must call all things by name
   out of the silence again to be with us,
   or die of namelessness.