To force the pace and never to be
Is not the way of those who study
Or women.
The best poets wait for words.
The hunt is not an exercise of
But patient love relaxing on a
To note the movement of a timid wing;
Until the one who knows that she is
No longer waits but risks surrendering -In this the poet finds his moral
Who never spoke before his spirit moved.
The slow movement seems, somehow, to say much more.
To watch the rarer birds, you have to
Along deserted lanes and where the rivers
In silence near the source, or by a
Remote and thorny like the heart's dark floor.
And there the women slowly turn around,
Not only flesh and bone but myths of
With darkness at the core, and sense is
But poets lost in crooked, restless flight,
The deaf can hear, the blind recover sight.
