Sometimes up out of this land a legend begins to move.
Is it a coming near of something under love?
Love is of the earth only, the surface, a map of roads leading wherever go miles or little bushes nod.
Not so the legend under, fixed, inexorable, deep as the darkest mine the thick rocks won't tell.
As fire burns the leaf and out of the green appears the vein in the center line and the legend veins under there,
So, the world happens twice— once what we see it as; second it legends itself deep, the way it is.
