I draw a window
and a man sitting inside it.
I draw a bird in flight above the lintel.
That’s my picture of thinking.
If I put a woman there instead
of the man, it’s a picture of speaking.
If I draw a second bird
in the woman’s lap, it’s ministering.
A third flying below her feet.
Now it’s singing.
Or erase the birds,
make ivy branching
around the woman’s ankles, clinging
to her knees, and it becomes remembering.
You’ll have to find your own
pictures, whoever you are,
whatever your need.
As for me, many small hands
issuing from a waterfall
means silence
mothered me.
The hours hung like fruit in night’s tree
means when I close my eyes
and look inside me,
a thousand open eyes
span the moment of my waking.
Meanwhile, the clock
adding a grain to a grain
and not getting bigger,
subtracting a day from a day
and never having less, means the honey
lies awake all night
inside the honeycomb
wondering who its parents are.
And even my death isn’t my death
unless it’s the unfathomed brow
of a nameless face.
Even my name isn’t my name
except the bees assemble
a table to grant a stranger
light and moment in a wilderness
of Who? Where?