(This is not a suicide poem, although I realize parts might sound as if it is.) Stone If loneliness were tangible, you could feel the marble of her cheek, and wipe away her tears – a salty wetness – of which she does not speak. Amidst the chatter of everyday things, the clutter and the clatter, She is alone. She will never tell you where it is she goes, or all the things she wonders, or all the things she knows. In the milkweeded mornings and dandelion days, she will fly alone – unaccompanied – across the open water, from shore to distant shore. In solitude and silence, she will seek and find – within, without herself – a certain peace of mind.