I have gazed long at the turbulent
while piled high cloud masses
I have watched the millions of stars at night
the damp fog has come and surrounded me
and the land is silent
the fresh rain has laved my face
while the wind blew warmly.
I receive no message from these for humankind
but hear only their message to me;
for they awaken the wonder that is in me
in addition, the yeaning that is the depth of my soul.
They do not tell me to scatter my words
through the world like seeds
rather, they say, Behold! be of us
and wing out beyond the world forever
and in my soul the deep yearning pleads for the
fulfillment of its' aching desire
to go with the sun, moon and the stars
and seek with them the answer to eternity.
But still the clouds, ebon faced, mass against
the fiery red rays of the setting sun
the stars, far distant, in space, still glitter
brightly in the patterns
the fog, white by day, grey by night
moves yet noiselessly on, giving intimacy
to near things, and strangeness to
those looming on the edge of vision
the rain falls yet too, cleansing and releasing
the perfume of the wet earth.
So I write
letting the words of my unrest
go freely where they would
for each word is deflection
from the longing within me
of all the voices I must heed and may not.
However, I cannot write in the dark
I cannot write as I stand on the hill gazing
yet the yearning is there most of all
therefore! I say aloud, convincingly
"It is only lovely"
to wander on through the night and day
and the years.