Michael P. McManus






He had come to stand under the silence
of space above him, while the pine trees,
out of the gray hills and beyond,
rose up to a deepening green silence.

Through the window no star and no turning.
The veined leaf had served its purpose well,
entering its loneliness before its falling.
And centered in him the sound of nothing,

the liquid outline within the rock,
all rippled outward, growing
moment by moment into music,
a kind of prayer from the fearful heart.

From where he stood the high hill moved.
And by trying he moved it back
with such skill, not even the dust was raised.
And the place he knew stayed within the place.


Copyright 2004 Michael P. McManus.  All Rights Reserved.

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