You point to the sky

the sky

is reflected in your eyes

and i

want to fly

on a carpet of brown leaves

we retrace the steps of change

construct a tapestry of what will come



You point to the sea

i see

what seems to be so free

bound by

empty sky

on a tower of gray earth

far above the spray-struck stone

we climb toward the melting point of time



* * *



here we tumble down the path

comic beggars trading laughs

for scraps from the tables of the wise



(toronto -- november 18, 1970)