Classic 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 tomorrows
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.