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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