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