The Native Warrant
The mason left
three stones
beside the wall.
Nothing
prevented him.
The wall
had merely ceased
to require
his hand.
For years
I could not.
Each thought,
arriving,
claimed
precedence.
I convened
an inward assize,
awarding
credence,
reprieve,
exile—
until my days
became
the jurisprudence
of echoes.
Meanwhile
rain
never argued.
The ash
added one leaf
to the wind.
A blackbird
crossed the morning
without ambition.
Roots,
beneath the path,
advanced
through darkness
that required
no witness.
Then,
while the kettle
raised
its small republic
of steam,
a thought
called me.
I did not answer.
Nothing followed
except
what had always
been following.
Steam
ascended.
The bird
completed
its silence.
Evening
entered
every object
equally.
The thought
went on
without me.
There,
if there
it may be called,
Silence
relinquished
its ancient misnomer.
It was never
the absence
of voices.
It was
everything
that had never
petitioned
belief.
Then Observation,
long usurped
by governance,
remembered
its elder office.
Not to choose.
Not to refuse.
Only
to behold
that Reality
had never once
competed
for my attention.
The mountain
remained
where no distance
could improve it.
The sea
arrived
without travelling.
The stars
required
no heaven.
Since then,
whenever thought
pronounces
my name,
I wait
for what
has never
spoken—
and it is always
first.
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