Things need no words and can articulate Themselves in sun or shade. The hushed eclipse In dialects of light, the whispered grass, The mute love fluent on another's lips That words reduce to something less or other: "Sweet," "sensitive," "illicit." Even "kiss" Betrays the blinded hands and concave back; A public roar in private silences. But rock remains unreal to the folk Who cannot call it forth. To see black stone Is less than seeing obsidian that the wind Has sheered from lava. What is named is known Though rain-gods need no prayer to pile the clouds Pierced by the sunlight to absolve our skin. Existence needs no praise, and so we praise it For meaning more than any uttered thing.