SILENT STONES
poem written for an online poetry class in response to the above image
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At dawn, the river whispers cold,
its tongue of silver licking stones~
those ancient teeth that never spoke,
though centuries have knelt and prayed.
The water writes, then takes it back,
a scribe with no allegiance.
The stones remain—unread, unturned—
like letters never sent.
And I, who came to hear their song,
stand knee-deep in their silence.
The current murmurs what they won't say:
Some things are best left unfinished.
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