Sometimes words come hard, they resist me till I pluck them from deep water like hooked fish; sometimes they are birds soaring out of a cloud that fall right into place, shot with arrows, and I harvest lines neglected for a hundred generations, rhymes underheard for a thousand years. I won’t touch a flower already in morning bloom but quicken the unopened evening buds. In a blink I see today and the past, put out my hand and touch all the seas.
I swim in that long river And rest on its bank. I climb that high hillcrest And cut the wild thorn. Alas! I journey afar, Alone I travel, in utter solitude. I look up at that temperate wind And shed tears like the rain.