If all the animals came from the hills,
if all the fish came from the rivers,
and the birds came down from the sky
we would know our lives,
small,
somewhere between the mountain
and the ant.
We would see what we do pass by
and return
around Earth’s curve.
All I know are these rivers,
the air and wind
carving down the trees
with their invisible hands
until the trees are bent figures of old men
and then only the empty space,
a longing that passes.
And that sorrow says,
the animals,
who will speak for them?
Who will make houses of air
with their words?
And the mouth of a man,
the tongue
that belongs to grass and light
and the four-legged creatures.
He gives voice to the small animals.
He gives a seat to the eagles.
Words for the fish.
The golden light of creation.
Light.
Lumine.
The world returns.
I do not want to break this spell.
I do not want the words to fall away.
I do not want to break this spell.
for Oren Lyons, 1978