The stones know my soul.
They have surrounded it
and the simple light through trees
grows inside my head,
a web of color and shape
as if this could tell what I've become
so many years after I stopped
believing.  Thin rain is no less
cold against skin, such knives
that barely miss us, kisses
from ghosts and the children of ghosts.
What is happiness but the sight of sky.
What is rest but the way you lie
beside me, still and warm.