21. Pencils

PENCILS

telling where the wind comes from

open a story.

Pencils

telling where the wind goes

end a story.

These eager pencils

come to a stop

.. only .. when the stars high over

come to a stop.

Out of cabalistic to-morrows

come cryptic babies calling life

a strong and a lovely thing.

I have seen neither these

nor the stars high over

come to a stop.

Neither these nor the sea horses

running with the clocks of the moon.

Nor even a shooting star

snatching a pencil of fire

writing a curve of gold and white.

Like you .. I counted the shooting stars of a winter

night and my head was dizzy with all

of them calling one by one:

Look for us again.