Sometimes you can feel the very notion of yourself
flowing out through your fingertips, and the wind in your hair
is not wind, but caress, and your hair is not hair,
but a place for stars to meet.
And one — one life, one love, one peace, one dove,
one word, one almighty gentle thought
that has not yet come to anyone.
And the thought is not a thought,
but the very notion of yourself flowing out
through your fingertips.
And your fingers are not fingers.
Then a child comes and takes delight in you,
and in the birds singing from your branches.
And you are this child, and distance crumbles,
and meaning drinks at the stream.
And the stream is a galaxy. Imagine the roots it dreams!
Now, give me your coat, love, and come in,
let me kiss the snow from your brow.
Let me, if I am, or have been.
Let me end and begin.
Let me when and then.
Come in! Come in! Come in, love! Come in!