You gave me time. And giving that, like a master, a miser, gave away nothing. You knew this all along. For though you move in cycles and seasons, you dwell beyond, outside of time and measure, beyond the scope of words and reasons. This is what you give, then: a center, a way of being, that though it moves, lies beyond movement the way the springs of a well rise far below the moving waters of their mirrored surface where they play and spill like the dance of trees rooted upside down in heaven. How strange it seems, through the looking glass. For I know your ways, am one of them with you. Like needle, like compass, like kayak I follow you as you follow me. And moving, am moved toward you. As you like these waves, make no move at all. Croatan Sound. Albemarle Sound. Currituck Sound. Pamlico Sound. The music of a water wind beyond human names and naming.
Heavy the waxwings hang upon the bough, A gospel dozen, sharing summer fruits, The pyrocanthus touched with winter snow, Alive with yellow-banded crested suits. There is no solitary prophet here, Spying the setting, ranking lesser wings; They come in droves, in droves they disappear, Unlike the dove, alone no waxwing sings. Of course the birds are metaphor to me, The waxing congregation sharing all; The dove, I think, practices poetry, Solitary, an “individual.” Is it perverse to sing a lonely song, When love prescribes the place where we belong?