Or perhaps—perhaps—I am just an upturned tree, all my roots earth

laden and bare. Perhaps I fell over so I could worship at the altars of birds.



Or I am a harlequin waterfowl, speckled—black-white, black-white—

hiding safely in day or night. My eyelids are made of feathers



so dark they throw off an emerald sheen. And here I am—still—at home

bobbing on top of this endless white sea, batting my lashes



toward every beacon—on any remaining shore—ignited

and burning brightly throughout all the black worlds.

We met ourselves as we came back 
As we hiked the trail from the north. 
Our foot-prints mixed in the rainy path
Coming back and going forth. 
The prints of my comrade’s hob-nailed shoes 
And my tramp shoes mixed in the rain. 
We had climbed for days and days to the North 
And this was the sum of our gain: 
We met ourselves as we came back,
And were happy in mist and rain. 
Our old souls and our new souls 
Met to salute and explain—
That a day shall be as a thousand years, 
And a thousand years as a day. 
The powers of a thousand dreaming skies 
As we shouted along the trail of surprise 
Were gathered in our play: 
The purple skies of the South and the North, 
The crimson skies of the South and the North,
Of tomorrow and yesterday.