| Where the path closed |
| down and over, |
| through the scumbled leaves, |
| fallen branches, |
| through the knotted catbrier, |
| I kept going. Finally |
| I could not |
| save my arms |
| from thorns; soon |
| the mosquitoes |
| smelled me, hot |
| and wounded, and came |
| wheeling and whining. |
| And that's how I came |
| to the edge of the pond: |
| black and empty |
| except for a spindle |
| of bleached reeds |
| at the far shore |
| which, as I looked, |
| wrinkled suddenly |
| into three egrets - - - |
| a shower |
| of white fire! |
| Even half-asleep they had |
| such faith in the world |
| that had made them - - - |
| tilting through the water, |
| unruffled, sure, |
| by the laws |
| of their faith not logic, |
| they opened their wings |
| softly and stepped |
| over every dark thing. |
|
 |
