On Reading Leibovitz in Virginia's Rivers

sunset

On Reading Leibovitz In Virginia’s Rivers

empty, empty, empty; silent

silent, silent.  The room was a shell, singing

of what was before time was; a vase

stood in the heart of the house,

alabaster, smooth, cold, holding

the still, distilled essence of emptiness,

silence.

                                Virginia Woolf

                                Between the Acts

now I know what paperweights are for: holding

flat the page opposite of Annie

Leibovitz’s picture of leaves beneath

and beyond a certain precious

leaded window, and then

description of Monks House, Virginia

Woolf’s last residence—her only place

to recluse – recuse? herself during the Blitz,

where she, finally finished in 1941

February, closed

the pages on Between the Acts

and walked out a month later

into the river

Ouse – and here, the paperweight (I’m forever

after picking up stones too, but only

the worn out ones, those who’ve made it

through, you know the hues) because she

chose each stone carefully I’d imagine –

and even if she didn’t, even if she picked each

at random – I’d make it

that way in my head – favoring

shapes and weight both, building a cairn

in her coat pocket and walking it

like a dog into the water, waiting while the stray

coat ends floated some then soaked and wouldn’t

and no longer able could, with their little resistance,

the lode-

stone they’d become knocking on one another

in the dark, pulled to the only companion

they could:

weight – weight – weight – each heavy

breast or ever else pocket demanding now (after that

practice run) the bottom she couldn’t

struggle up from any longer.