It's always intangibles that draw me, sleepily
into another trackless landscape
reaching from my mind, out to a dry horizon
that obscures each fleeing fragment
of that sense of home that I have cherished.
Its silence is the magnet. Yet is the return
that will not let me go. There it is,
and madness only may respond.
I have sought it, but only from necessity,
for all is vanity; this we know.
And all, and all...
This, too the God proclaimers know,
seek him after centuries of seeking...
and find him not.
It is the seeking, after all, that is
sine qua non, the prize.
From it alone the hallelujahs burst the sky;
the butterfly conducts its newest symphony,
the essence of a purity distilled from love.
All this, the fountainhead of joy.
There is the path. There is where the eagles fly.
There the night of sparkling stars,
the curvature of space, the stone-dry furrow
where the creek once ran...
the empty road ahead.
your longing at an end,