Turn from your heart into the wild rippling water,
away from your warm and wood-paneled loves
into the roll of hills you never knew,
trust your lungs to continue grabbing air,
your aging hands to hold to what you need
as you go beyond these rain spangled cobwebs
of the past; soar into those passing storm clouds
to the stars beyond, crack your mind like a broken bell
and leap from the steeple tower to the freshet's run,
down with the fishes as they lead you to the sea,
where monsters and madness and mystery dwell.
Your spirit is in the foam painting every foreign shore;
your passion threads fingers into every crevice
like the mountain top gusts that make the rocks
sing. Strangely laughing, you are waiting in a silent place
for yourself to come along, a place where
straight though the roads are asked to run,
the only path in sight is the step you're taking now,
an endless bushwhack over the broken ground of the limitless.
Turn your face around and see your moment's trail
fading— the grasses stand up one by one,
the pebbles' upturned bottoms slowly dry.
What wind could ask for more than this trackless world,
these miles of solitude, flagrant and rife
and alive to the riffling pattern? There is shift
and sparkle as the ungraspable waters of life slide by,
and the acres swallow you completely, vast distance
and forest transcending the tiny hamlet of the heart.