green jade        bubbling up from a deep  
spring like a freak storm     in the middle of the living room 
  
    a shrill wind        from the tips of his fingers 
 that  won't  talk     that won't drop down 
    from the refuge they've taken
  on the ceiling        in a spider's nest
     to a less formidable position       at her side 

a  voice  that springs loose
   is blown  away       not by  the  clouds    
    rocks           not his words    tumble  out


like cold agates        frozen in her hand 

       she returns them to nature
after passing her hands over them once

she wants to keep them but

they belong at the bottom of the stream
   in the icy cold morning 
 water that passes by only once