Mary draws and Mary writes from silence,
silence that uplifts and holds her. These strings,
she thinks, are more than finite. They wrap all things
and draw them to her. Every weight and every measure,
all things tossed or turned or treasured,
all things simple, green or rusted, doubted, doubled, drummed
or busted, all things filtered out and saved, or wasted,
all things stirring, dead, or passive
all the unknown multitude of things
enormous as a whole, and as a whole, so quiet.
Like Mary’s eyes, so quiet. Mary draws from silence.