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Poem	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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