Risen, says the sun.

The world is your true body,
say the stars, seen and unseen.
But you won’t find your mind there.

Little Clock, stop counting, says the sky.

Little Candle, don’t look back, says the waning moon.

And the wind charges, Herd the flowers!
Pawn style, stigma, stamen, gnomon, and nodus
for compass, sails, rigging, and more of the map!

And the river reminds,
Those nights were not wasted
when you, a child, undefended
inside and out, lay sleepless under roof beams
older than yourself
and listened to boughs more old,
arched over the house, cracking and groaning
in a wind without age.

Suddenly the riverbank erupts in bird calls
to crown morning’s stanza.  Dandelion seeds fill the air
and cross the moving water on a high breeze,
each glinting with its share of the dawn,
and each waving to the man who watched them leave
one bank for the other, leave him
to wonder:

How does a man know when
it’s safe to sing
and when it’s good to cross wide water?
At what threshold do inklings nurse
before they rear
and bridge as voices to decide
what we call level,
pitch, round, square, path, home, and meeting?