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.
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