strings not found in weaving
in falls which take the gliding stream along
bared arms un-looking for nothing besides
just the shadow falls right beneath the lies...
full-flighted stooping,
kept folds of gold,
one sound that spreads the clouds
growing blazes abound...
unshaken still,
the speaking hills on fire,
harps playing rising sounds of thoughts
there can be walking thousands miles still higher
alone, a half-life, dug in its urn, un-wrought.
......................
