In the morning I rise from sleep, traveling out of my dreams
from birth to death and death to birth.
I weave a circle of words that include the eagle we just saw,
wings wide, flying to her nest in a high pine,
and my dream of rescuing lost children.
I follow these contours of our life
to share what little I know of birds, trees,
and welcome pools of tears.
My words seek a home, a map of our universe,
some idea of where we might fly next,
and some sense of whether we can count on love to last,
or stand alone — alone! — in a world where there are no answers —
and you say I must get to the point,
when the point, dear man, is that there is no point.