The choir of women
Turned to stone
For they believed
In the power of silence, 
In the powerful silence
Of their own stillness.
Sculptured heads, massive;
Ancient eyes carved with obsidian hand tools,
The swallowed-tongue women
On that island called Easter.
Cipher the message.
Wind in the trees, raindrops
Speak for me, their sister;
I am stillness
Before the sharp tongue of my love. 
My power, too, lies
In words unspoken.
So impassioned,
He calls me stone.


Barbara Chaapel