Down the road that
I designed myself
from a hundred walks
through many minutes
of a life, I still cannot
construct an audience
of birds, the tawny-green
of grasses bowing softly,
a patient, secret way
through honey-colored fields.
Thoughtfully, I built the silence,
hairless, weightless winds, yet
pressing down on flowers,
down like bodies of the men
who came and went, hunting
hounds racing through
ribboned, tangled woods-
the woods that I became.
Now I'll raise a tower, stone,
the road will pass beside it,
stars that I have hung, alone
and quiet in a handmade sky
will guide the traveler home.
