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telling where the wind comes from
        open a story.


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 to-morrows
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.