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.

Published in Smoke and Steel

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